•;' 


CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  I9OI>  an^ 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read 
ing  was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig 
nificance.  His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


Collier  <0rajmm 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER    AND    OTHER 
STORIES.        i2mo,  $1.25 

STORIES   OF  THE    FOOT-HILLS 
i6mo,  $1.25 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


The  Wizard's  Daughter 

and  Other  Stories 


The 


V  Daughter 

a  €>fBet;  Stories 


By 


Margaret   Collier  Graham 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   AND    COMPANY 

CtitersiDc  press,  €ambriti0e 
1905 


,c  COPYRIGHT  IQOS 

BY  MARGARET  COLLIER  GRAHAM 
,  '   <  (  ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  September  rtjoj 


IN  MEMORIAM 

C,  U 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Wizard's  Daughter i 

Marg'et  Ann        ......  67 

At  the  Foot  of  the  Trail 133 

Lib 169 

For  Value  Received 181 

The  Face  of  the  Poor 205 


86S70O 


The  Wizard's  Daughter 


The  Wizard's   Daughter 

THERE  had  been  a  norther  during  the 
day,  and  at  sunset  the  valley,  seen  from 
Dysart's  cabin  on  the  mesa,  was  a  soft  blur 
of  golden  haze.  The  wind  had  hurled  the 
yellow  leaves  from  the  vineyard,  exposing  the 
gnarled  deformity  of  the  vines,  and  the  trail 
ing  branches  of  the  pepper-trees  had  swept 
their  fallen  berries  into  coral  reefs  on  the 
southerly  side. 

A  young  man  with  a  delicate,  discontented 
face  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  Dysart  claim 
cabin,  looking  out  over  the  valley.  A  last 
gust  of  lukewarm  air  strewed  the  floor  with 
scythe-shaped  eucalyptus-leaves,  and  Mrs. 
Dysart  came  out  with  her  broom  to  sweep 
them  away. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  with  a  crease  at 
her  waist  that  buried  her  apron-strings,  and 
the  little  piazza,  creaked  ominously  as  she 

3 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

walked  about.  The  invalid  got  up  with  a 
man's  instyn-ciiv-s  distrust  of  a  broom,  and 
begau  to  ;irtove  away. 

'  "'Don't  disturb  yourself,  Mr.  Palmerston," 
she  said,  waving  him  back  into  his  chair 
with  one  hand,  and  speaking  in  a  large,  level 
voice,  as  if  she  were  quelling  a  mob,  —  "don't 
disturb  yourself;  I  won't  raise  any  dust. 
Does  the  north  wind  choke  you  up  much  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  the  young  fellow, 
carelessly;  "  it  was  a  rather  more  rapid 
change  of  air  than  I  bargained  for,  but  I  guess 
it  's  over  now." 

"  Sick  folks  generally  think  the  north  wind 
makes  them  nervous.  Some  of  them  say  it 's 
the  electricity;  but  I  think  it 's  because  most 
of  'em  's  men-folks,  and  being  away  from 
their  families,  they  naturally  blame  things  on 
the  weather." 

Mrs.  Dysart  turned  her  ample  back  toward 
her  hearer,  and  swept  a  leaf-laden  cobweb 
from  the  corner  of  the  window. 

The  young  man's  face  relaxed. 

"  I  don't  think  it  made  me  nervous,"  he 
said.  "  But  then,  I  'm  not  very  ill.  I  'm  out 

4 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

here  for  my  mother's  health.    She  threatened 
to  go  into  a  decline  if  I  did  n't  come." 

"  Well,  you  've  got  a  consumptive  build," 
said  Mrs.  Dysart,  striking  her  broom  on  the 
edge  of  the  porch,  "  and  you  're  light-com 
plected;  that's  likely  to  mean  scrofula. 
You  'd  ought  to  be  careful.  California  's  a 
good  deal  of  a  hospital,  but  it  don't  do  to 
depend  too  much  on  the  climate.  It  ain't 
right;  it's  got  to  be  blessed  to  your  use." 

Palmerston  smiled,  and  leaned  his  head 
against  the  redwood  wall  of  the  cabin.  Mrs. 
Dysart  creaked  virtuously  to  and  fro  behind 
her  broom. 

"  Is  n't  that  Mr.  Dysart's  team  ?  "  asked 
the  young  man,  presently,  looking  down  the 
valley. 

His  companion  walked  to  the  edge  of  the 
porch  and  pushed  back  her  sunbonnet  to 
look. 

"Yes,"  she  announced,  "that's  Jawn; 
he  's  early." 

She  piled  her  cushiony  hands  on  the  end 
of  the  broom-handle,  and  stood  still,  gazing 
absently  at  the  approaching  team. 

S 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

"  I  hope  your  mother 's  a  Christian  wo 
man,"  she  resumed,  with  a  sort  of  corpulent 
severity. 

The  young  man's  face  clouded,  and  then 
cleared  again  whimsically. 

"I  really  never  inquired,"  he  said  lightly; 
"  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  she  is.  She  is 
certainly  not  a  pagan." 

"You  spoke  as  if  she  was  a  good  deal 
wrapped  up  in  you,"  continued  his  hostess, 
addressing  herself  unctuously  to  the  land 
scape.  "  I  was  thinkin'  she  'd  need  some 
thing  to  sustain  her  if  you  was  to  be  taken 
away.  There's  nothing  but  religion  that 
can  prepare  us  for  whatever  comes.  I  won 
der  who  that  Jawn  's  a-bringin'  now,"  she 
broke  off  suddenly,  holding  one  of  her  fat 
hands  above  her  eyes  and  leaning  forward 
with  a  start.  "  He  does  pick  up  the  queerest 
lot.  I  just  held  my  breath  the  other  day 
when  I  saw  him  fetchin'  you.  I'd  been 
wantin'  a  boarder  all  summer,  and  kind  of 
lookin'  for  one,  but  I  was  n't  no  more  ready 
for  you  than  if  you  'd  been  measles.  It  does 
seem  sometimes  as  if  men-folks  take  a  satis- 

6 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

faction  in  seem'  how  they  can  put  a  woman 
to." 

Mrs.  Dysart  wabbled  heavily  indoors, 
where  she  creaked  about  unresignedly,  put 
ting  things  to  rights.  Palmerston  closed  his 
eyes  and  struggled  with  a  smile  that  kept 
breaking  into  a  noiseless  laugh.  He  had  a 
fair,  high-bred  face,  and  his  smile  empha 
sized  its  boyishness. 

When  the  wagon  rattled  into  the  acacias 
west  of  the  vineyard,  he  got  up  and  saun 
tered  toward  the  barn.  John  Dysart  saw 
him  coming,  and  took  two  or  three  steps 
toward  him  with  his  hand  at  the  side  of  his 
mouth. 

"  He 's  deaf,"  he  whispered  with  a  violent 
facial  enunciation  which  must  have  assailed 
the  stranger's  remaining  senses  like  a  yell. 
"  I  think  you  '11  like  him ;  he  's  a  wonderful 
talker." 

The  newcomer  was  a  large,  seedy-looking 
man,  with  the  resigned,  unexpectant  manner 
of  the  deaf.  Dysart  went  around  the  wagon, 
and  the  visitor  put  up  his  trumpet. 

"  Professor  Brownell,"  John  called  into  it, 


THE  WIZARD'S  DAUGHTER 

"  I  want  to  make  you  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Palmerston.  Mr.  Palmerston  is  a  young  man 
from  the  East,  a  student  at  Cambridge  —  no, 
Oxford"  — 

"  Ann  Arbor,"  interrupted  the  young  man, 
eagerly. 

Dysart  ignored  the  interruption.  "  He  's 
out  here  for  his  health." 

The  stranger  nodded  toward  the  young 
man  approvingly,  and  dropped  the  trumpet 
as  if  he  had  heard  enough. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Palmerston?"  he 
said,  reaching  down  to  clasp  the  young  fel 
low's  slim  white  hand.  "  I  ?m  glad  to  meet 
a  scholar  in  these  wilds." 

Palmerston  blushed  a  helpless  pink,  and 
murmured  politely.  The  stranger  dismounted 
from  the  wagon  with  the  awkwardness  of 
age  and  avoirdupois.  John  Dysart  stood  just 
behind  his  guest,  describing  him  as  if  he 
were  a  panorama:  — 

"  I  never  saw  his  beat.  He  talks  just  like 
a  book.  He  's  filled  me  chuck-full  of  science 
on  the  way  up.  He  knows  all  about  the  in 
side  of  the  earth  from  the  top  crust  to  China. 

8 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

Ask  him  something  about  his  machine,  and 
get  him  started." 

Palmerston  glanced  inquiringly  toward  the 
trumpet.  The  stranger  raised  it  to  his  ear  and 
leaned  graciously  toward  him. 

"  Mr.  Dysart  is  mistaken,"  called  Palmer 
ston,  in  the  high,  lifeless  voice  with  which  we 
all  strive  to  reconcile  the  deaf  to  their  afflic 
tion  ;  "  I  am  a  Western  man,  from  Ann 
Arbor." 

"  Better  still,  better  still,"  interrupted  the 
newcomer,  grasping  his  hand  again  ;  "you  '11 
be  broader,  more  progressive — <  the  heir  of 
all  the  ages,'  and  so  forth.  I  was  denied  such 
privileges  in  my  youth.  But  nature  is  an  open 
book,  '  sermons  in  stones.' "  He  turned  to 
ward  the  wagon  and  took  out  a  small  leather 
valise,  handling  it  with  evident  care. 

Dysart  winked  at  the  young  man,  and 
pointed  toward  the  satchel. 

"Jawn,"  called  Mrs.  Dysart  seethingly, 
from  the  kitchen  door,  "what's  the  trou 
ble?" 

John's  facial  contortions  stopped  abruptly, 
as  if  the  mainspring  had  snapped.  He  took 

9 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

off  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head  gingerly 
with  the  tip  of  his  little  finger.  He  had  a 
round,  bald  head,  with  a  fringe  of  smooth, 
red-brown  hair  below  the  baldness  that  made 
it  look  like  a  filbert. 

"  I  'm  coming,  Emeline,"  he  called,  glan 
cing  hurriedly  from  the  two  men  to  the 
vicinity  of  his  wife's  voice,  as  if  anxious  to 
bisect  himself  mentally  and  leave  his  hospi 
tality  with  his  guest. 

"  I  '11  look  after  Professor  Brownell,"  said 
Palmerston  ;  "  he  can  step  into  my  tent  and 
brush  up." 

Dysart's  countenance  cleared. 

"Good,"  he  said  eagerly,  starting  on  a 
quick  run  toward  the  kitchen  door.  When 
he  was  half-way  there  he  turned  and  put  up 
his  hand  again.  "  Draw  him  out!  "  he  called 
in  a  stentorian  whisper.  "  You  'd  ought  to 
hear  him  talk  ;  it  ?s  great.  Get  him  started 
about  his  machine." 

Palmerston  smiled  at  the  unnecessary  ad 
monition.  The  stranger  had  been  talking  all 
the  time  in  a  placid,  brook-like  manner 
while  he  felt  under  the  wagon-seat  for  a 


10 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

second  and  much  smaller  traveling-bag.  The 
young  man  possessed  himself  of  this  after 
having  been  refused  the  first  by  a  gentle 
motion  of  the  owner's  hand.  The  visitor 
accepted  his  signal  of  invitation,  and  followed 
him  toward  the  tent. 

"  Our  universities  and  colleges  are  useful 
in  their  way;  they  no  doubt  teach  many 
things  that  are  valuable:  but  they  are  not 
practical;  they  all  fail  in  the  application  of 
knowledge  to  useful  ends.  I  am  not  an  ed 
ucated  man  myself,  but  I  have  known  many 
who  are,  and  they  are  all  alike  —  shallow, 
superficial,  visionary.  They  need  to  put 
away  their  books  and  sit  down  among  the 
everlasting  hills  and  think.  You  have  done 
well  to  come  out  here,  young  man.  This  is 
good;  you  will  grow." 

He  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  tent  and 
took  off  his  rusty  hat.  The  breeze  blew  his 
long  linen  duster  about  his  legs. 

"  Have  you  looked  much  into  electrical  phe 
nomena?  "  he  asked,  putting  up  his  trumpet. 

Palmerston  moved  a  step  back,  and  said: 
"  No;  not  at  all."  Then  he  raised  his  hand 

ii 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

to  possess  himself  of  the  ear-piece,  and  col 
ored  as  he  remembered  that  it  was  not  a 
telephone.  His  companion  seemed  equally 
oblivious  of  his  confusion  and  of  his  reply. 

"  I  have  made  some  discoveries,"  he  went 
on;  "I  shall  be  pleased  to  talk  them  over 
with  you.  They  will  revolutionize  this  coun 
try."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  mesa. 
"  Every  foot  of  this  land  will  sometime  blos 
som  as  the  rose ;  greasewood  and  sage-brush 
will  give  place  to  the  orange  and  the  vine. 
Water  is  king  in  California,  and  there  are 
rivers  of  water  locked  in  these  mountains. 
We  must  find  it;  yes,  yes,  my  young  friend, 
we  must  find  it,  and  we  can  find  it.  I  have 
solved  that.  The  solution  is  here."  He 
stooped  and  patted  his  satchel  affectionately. 
"  This  little  instrument  is  California's  best 
friend.  There  is  a  future  for  all  these  valleys, 
wilder  than  our  wildest  dreams." 

Palmerston  nodded  with  a  guilty  feeling 
of  having  approved  statements  of  which  he 
intended  merely  to  acknowledge  the  receipt, 
and  motioned  his  guest  into  the  white  twi 
light  of  the  tent. 

12 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

"Make  yourself  comfortable,  professor," 
he  called.  "  I  want  to  find  Dysart  and  get 
my  mail." 

As  he  neared  the  kitchen  door  Mrs.  Dy- 
sart's  voice  came  to  him  enveloped  in  the 
sizzle  of  frying  meat. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  Jawn;  he  may  n't 
be  just  the  old-fashioned  water-witch,  but  it 
ain't  right;  it 's  tamperin'  with  the  secrets 
of  the  Most  High,  that 's  what  I  think." 

"  Well,  now,  Emeline,  you  had  n't  ought 
to  be  hasty.  He  don't  lay  claim  to  anything 
more  'n  natural ;  he  says  it 's  all  based  on 
scientific  principles.  He  says  he  can  tell  me 
just  where  to  tunnel  —  Now,  here 's  Mr. 
Palmerston;  he's  educated.  I'm  going  to 
rely  on  him." 

"  Well,  I  'm  goin'  to  rely  on  my  heavenly 
Fawther,"  said  Mrs.  Dysart  solemnly,  from 
the  quaking  pantry. 

Palmerston  stood  in  the  doorway,  smil 
ing.  John  jumped  up  and  clapped  his  hand 
vigorously  on  his  breast  pockets. 

"Well,  now,  there!  I  left  your  mail  in 
the  wagon  in  my  other  coat,"  he  said,  hook- 

13 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

ing  his  arm  through  the  young  man's  and 
drawing  him  toward  the  barn.  "  Did  you 
get  him  turned  on?  "  he  asked  eagerly,  when 
they  were  out  of  his  wife's  hearing.  "  How 
does  he  strike  you,  anyway?  Doesn't  he 
talk  like  a  book  ?  He  wants  me  to  help  him 
find  a  claim  —  show  him  the  corners,  you 
know.  He 's  got  a  daughter  down  at  Los 
Angeles;  she  '11  come  up  and  keep  house 
for  him.  He  says  he  '11  locate  water  on 
shares  if  I  '11  help  him  find  a  claim  and  do 
the  tunneling.  Emeline  she 's  afraid  I  '11 
get  left,  but  I  think  she'll  come  round. 
Is  n't  it  a  caution  the  way  he  talks  sci 
ence?" 

Palmerston  acknowledged  that  it  was. 

"  The  chances  are  that  he  is  a  fraud,  Dy- 
sart,"  he  said  kindly;  "most  of  those  peo 
ple  are.  I  'd  be  very  cautious  about  com 
mitting  myself." 

"  Oh,  I'm  cautious,"  protested  John; 
"  that 's  one  of  my  peculiarities.  Emeline 
thinks  because  I  look  into  things  I  'm  not  to 
be  trusted.  She  's  so  quick  herself  she  can't 
understand  anybody  that's  slow  and  care- 

14 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

ful.  Here  's  your  letters  —  quite  a  batch  of 
'em.  Would  you  mind  our  putting  up  a  cot 
in  your  tent  for  the  professor  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  young  fellow  good- 
naturedly.  "  It 's  excellent  discipline  to  have 
a  deaf  man  about;  you  realize  how  little  you 
have  to  say  that 's  worth  saying." 

"That's  a  fact, that's  a  fact,"  said  Dysart, 
rather  too  cheerfully  acquiescent.  "  A  man 
that  can  talk  like  that  makes  you  ashamed 
to  open  your  head." 

Palmerston  fell  asleep  that  night  to  the 
placid  monotone  of  the  newcomer's  voice, 
and  awoke  at  daybreak  to  hear  the  same 
conversational  flow  just  outside  the  tent.  Per 
haps  it  was  Dysart's  explosive  "  Good-morn 
ing,  professor ! "  which  seemed  to  have  missed 
the  trumpet  and  hurled  itself  against  the 
canvas  wall  of  the  tent  close  to  the  sleeper's 
ear,  that  awoke  him.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and 
tried  to  shake  off  the  conviction  that  his 
guest  had  been  talking  all  night.  Dysart's 
greeting  made  no  break  in  the  cheerful  opti 
mism  that  filtered  through  the  canvas. 

"  Last  night  I  was  an  old  man  and 
15 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

dreamed  dreams;  this  morning  I  am  a 
young  man  and  see  visions.  I  see  this  thirsty 
plain  fed  by  irrigating-ditches  and  covered 
with  bearing  orchards.  I  am  impatient  to  be 
off  on  our  tramp.  This  is  an  ideal  spot. 
With  five  acres  of  orange-trees  here,  pro 
ducing  a  thousand  dollars  per  acre,  one 
might  give  his  entire  time  to  scientific  in 
vestigation." 

"  He  'd  want  to  look  after  the  gophers 
some,"  yelled  Dysart. 

"  I  am  astonished  that  this  country  is  so 
little  appreciated,"  continued  Brownell, 
blindly  unheeding.  "  It  is  no  doubt  due  to 
the  reckless  statements  of  enthusiasts.  It  is 
a  wonderful  country  —  wonderful,  wonder 
ful,  wonderful! " 

There  was  a  diminuendo  in  the  repeated 
adjective  that  told  Palmerston  the  speaker 
was  moving  toward  the  house;  and  it  was 
from  that  direction  that  he  heard  Mrs.  Dysart, 
a  little  later,  assuring  her  visitor,  in  a  high, 
depressed  voice,  that  she  had  n't  found  the 
country  yet  that  would  support  anybody 
without  elbow-grease,  and  she  did  n't  expect 

16 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

to  till  it  was  Gawd's  will  to  take  her  to  her 
heavenly  home. 

John  Dysart  and  his  visitor  returned  from 
their  trip  in  the  mountains,  that  evening, 
tired,  dusty,  and  exultant.  The  professor's 
linen  duster  had  acquired  several  of  those 
triangular  rents  which  have  the  merit  of 
being  beyond  masculine  repair,  and  may 
therefore  be  conscientiously  endured.  He 
sat  on  the  camp-chair  at  Palmerston's  tent 
door,  his  finger-tips  together  and  his  head 
thrown  back  in  an  ecstasy  of  content. 

"  This  is  certainly  the  promised  land,"  he 
said  gravely,  "  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey.  Nature  has  done  her  share  lavishly: 
soil,  climate,  scenery  —  everything  but  wa 
ter;  yes,  and  water,  too,  waiting  for  the  brain, 
the  hand  of  man,  the  magic  touch  of  science 
—  the  one  thing  left  to  be  conquered  to  give 
the  sense  of  mastery,  of  possession.  This 
country  is  ours  by  right  of  conquest."  He 
waved  his  hands  majestically  toward  the  val 
ley.  "  In  three  months  we  shall  have  a  stream 
flowing  from  these  mountains  that  will  trans 
form  every  foot  of  ground  before  you.  These 

'7 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

people  seem  worthy,  though  somewhat  nar 
row.  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  share  prosper 
ity  with  them  as  freely  as  they  share  their 
poverty  with  me." 

Palmerston  glanced  conversationally  to 
ward  the  trumpet,  and  his  companion  raised 
it  to  his  ear. 

"  Dysart  is  a  poor  man,"  shouted  Palmer 
ston,  "  but  he  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world. 
I  should  hate  to  see  him  risk  anything  on  an 
uncertainty." 

Brownell  had  been  nodding  his  head  back 
ward  and  forward  with  dreamy  emphasis; 
he  now  shook  it  horizontally,  closing  his 
eyes.  "There  is  no  uncertainty,"  he  said, 
lowering  his  trumpet;  "that  is  the  advan 
tage  of  science:  you  can  count  upon  it  with 
absolute  certainty.  I  am  glad  the  man  is 
poor  —  very  glad;  it  heightens  the  pleasure 
of  helping  him." 

The  young  man  turned  away  a  trifle  im 
patiently. 

"A  reservoir  will  entail  some  expense,"  the 
professor  rambled  on;  "but  the  money  will 
come.  <  To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given.' ' 

18 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

Palmerston's  face  completed  the  quota 
tion,  but  the  speaker  went  on  without  open 
ing  his  eyes:  "When  the  water  is  once 
flowing  out  of  the  tunnel,  capital  will  flow 
into  it." 

"  A  good  deal  of  capital  will  flow  into  the 
tunnel  before  any  water  flows  out  of  it," 
growled  Palmerston,  taking  advantage  of 
his  companion's  physical  defect  to  relieve 
his  mind. 

Later  in  the  evening  Dysart  drew  the 
young  man  into  the  family  conference,  rely 
ing  upon  the  sympathy  of  sex  in  the  effort 
to  allay  his  wife's  misgivings. 

"  The  tunnel  won't  cost  over  two  dollars 
a  foot,  with  what  I  can  do  myself,"  main 
tained  the  little  man,  "  and  the  professor  says 
we  '11  strike  water  that  '11  drown  us  out 
before  we  've  gone  a  hundred  feet  Erne- 
line  here  she 's  afraid  of  it  because  it  sounds 
like  a  meracle,  but  I  tell  her  it's  pure  science. 
It  is  n't  any  more  wonderful  than  a  needle 
traveling  toward  a  magnet:  the  machine 
tells  where  the  water  is,  and  how  far  off  it 
is,  something  like  a  compass  —  I  don't  un- 

19 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

derstand  it,  but  I  can  see  that  it  ain't  any 
more  meraculous  than  a  telegraph.    It 's  sci 


ence." 


"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  mourned  Mrs.  Dysart, 
who  overflowed  a  small  rocking-chair  on  the 
piazza;  " there  's  folks  that  think  the  creation 
of  the  world  in  six  days  is  nothin'  but  sci 
ence,  but  they're  not  people  for  Christians 
to  be  goin'  pardners  with.  If  Gawd  has  put 
a  hundred  feet  of  dirt  on  top  of  that  water,  I 
tell  Jawn  he  had  his  reasons,  and  I  can't 
think  it 's  right  for  anybody  whose  treasure 
ought  to  be  laid  up  in  heaven  to  go  pryin' 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  huntin'  for  things 
that  our  heavenly  Fawther  's  hid." 

"  But  there 's  gold,  Emeline." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  there's  gold,  and  I 
know  'the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all 
evil.'  I  don't  say  that  the  Lord  don't  reign 
over  the  inside  of  the  earth,  but  I  do  say  that 
people  that  get  their  minds  fixed  on  things 
that 's  underground  are  liable  to  forget  the 
things  that  are  above." 

"  Well,  now,  I  'm  sure  they  had  n't  ought," 
protested  Dysart.  "  I  'm  sure  '  the  earth  is 

20 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof,'  Erne- 
line." 

Mrs.  Dysart  sank  slowly  back  in  her  chair 
at  this  unexpected  thrust  from  her  own  wea 
pon,  and  then  rallied  with  a  long,  corpulent 
sigh. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  You  recollect  that 
old  man  was  up  here  last  winter,  hammerin' 
around  among  the  rocks  as  if  the  earth  was 
a  big  nut  that  he  was  tryin'  to  crack  ?  I  talked 
with  him  long  enough  to  find  out  what  he 
was;  he  was  an  atheist" 

Mrs.  Dysart  leaned  forward  and  whis 
pered  the  last  word  in  an  awe-struck  tone, 
with  her  fat  eyes  fixed  reproachfully  upon 
her  husband. 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,  Emeline,"  pleaded 
John. 

Mrs.  Dysart  shut  her  lips  and  her  eyes  very 
tight,  and  nodded  slowly  and  affirmatively. 
"  Yes,  he  was.  He  set  right  in  that  identi 
cal  spot  where  Mr.  Palmerston  is  a-settin', 
and  talked  about  the  seven  theological  peri 
ods  of  creation,  and  the  fables  of  Jonah  and 
the  whale  and  Noah's  ark,  till  I  was  all  of  a 

21 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

tremble.  Mebbe  that 's  science,  Jawn,  but  / 
call  it  blasphemin'." 

Dysart  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  porch  as  if  he 
were  gazing  into  the  bottomless  pit. 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  Mrs.  Dysart,"  Palmer- 
ston  broke  in  cheerfully;  "I'm  not  at  all 
afraid  of  Mr.  Dysart  losing  his  faith,  but  I  'm 
very  much  afraid  of  his  losing  his  money.  I 
wish  he  had  as  good  a  grip  on  his  purse  as 
he  has  on  his  religion." 

Mrs.  Dysart  glanced  at  the  young  man 
with  a  look  of  relief  to  find  him  agreeing  with 
her  in  spite  of  his  irreverent  commingling  of 
the  temporal  and  the  spiritual. 

"  Well,  I  ?m  sure  we  've  lost  enough  al 
ready,  when  it  comes  to  that,"  she  continued, 
folding  her  hands  resignedly  in  her  convex 
lap.  "  There  was  that  artesian  well  down  at 
San  Pasqual "  — 

"Well,  now,  Emeline,"  her  husband  broke 
in  eagerly,  "  that  well  would  have  been  all 
right  if  the  tools  had  n't  stuck.  I  think  yet 
we  'd  have  got  water  if  we  'd  gone  on." 

"  We  'd  'a'  got  water  if  it  had  V  been  our 

22 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

heavenly  Fawther's  will,"  announced  Mrs. 
Dysart,  with  solemnity,  rising  slowly  from 
her  chair,  which  gave  a  little  squeak  of  re 
lief.  "  I  've  got  to  set  the  sponge,"  she  went 
on  in  the  same  tone,  as  if  it  were  some  sacred 
religious  rite.  "  I  wish  you  'd  talk  it  over  with 
Mr.  Palmerston,  Jawn,  and  tell  him  the  offer 
you  've  had  from  this  perfessor  —  I  'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  he  's  perfessor  of.  He  ain't 
a  perfessor  of  religion  —  I  know  that." 

She  sent  her  last  arrow  over  her  wide 
shoulder  as  she  passed  the  two  men  and 
creaked  into  the  house.  Her  husband  looked 
after  her  gravely. 

"  Now  that 's  the  way  with  Emeline,"  he 
said;  "she's  all  faith,  and  then,  again,  she 
has  no  faith.  Now,  I  'm  just  the  other  way." 
He  rubbed  his  bald  head  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  formulate  the  obverse  of  his  wife's  char 
acter.  "  Well,  anyway,"  he  resumed,  accept 
ing  his  failure  cheerfully,  "  the  professor  he 
wants  to  find  a  claim,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
but  he  wants  one  that 's  handy  to  the  place 
he 's  selected  for  the  tunnel.  Of  course  he 
won't  say  just  where  that  is  till  we  get 

23 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

the  papers  made  out,  but  he  gave  me  a  kind 
of  a  general  idea  of  it,  and  the  land  around 
there  's  all  mine.  He  'd  have  to  go  'way  over 
east  to  find  a  government  section  that  has  n't 
been  filed  on,  and  of  course  there  'd  be  a  big 
expense  for  pipe;  so  he  offers  to  locate  the 
tunnel  for  half  the  water  if  we  get  ten  inches 
or  over,  and  I  'm  to  make  the  tunnel,  and 
deed  him  twenty  acres  of  land." 

"  Suppose  you  get  less  than  ten  inches  — 
what  then  ?  " 

"  Then  it 's  all  to  be  mine ;  but  I  'm  to  deed 
him  the  land  all  the  same." 

"  How  many  inches  of  water  have  you 
from  your  spring  now  ?  " 

"  About  ten,  as  near  as  I  can  guess." 

"  Well,  suppose  he  locates  the  tunnel  so 
it  will  drain  your  spring;  are  you  to  have 
the  expense  of  the  work  and  the  privilege  of 
giving  him  half  the  water  and  twenty  acres 
of  land  — is  that  it?" 

John  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck  and  re 
flected. 

"  The  professor  laughs  at  the  idea  of  ten 
inches  of  water.  He  says  we  '11  get  at  least 

24 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

a  hundred,  maybe  more.  You  see,  if  we 
were  to  get  that  much,  I  'd  have  a  lot  of 
water  to  sell  to  the  settlers  below.  It  'u'd 
be  a  big  thing." 

"So  it  would;  but  there's  a  big  £if'  in 
there,  Dysart.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
this  man's  record  ?  " 

"I  asked  about  him  down  in  Los  An 
geles.  Some  folks  believe  in  him,  and  some 
don't.  They  say  he  struck  a  big  stream  for 
them  over  at  San  Luis.  I  don't  go  much  on 
what  people  say,  anyway;  I  size  a  man  up, 
and  depend  on  that.  I  like  the  way  the  pro 
fessor  talks.  I  don't  understand  all  of  it,  but 
he  seems  to  have  things  pretty  pat.  Don't 
you  think  he  has  ?  " 

"Yes;  he  has  things  pat  enough.  Most 
swindlers  have.  It's  their  business.  Not 
that  I  think  him  a  deliberate  swindler,  Dy 
sart.  Possibly  he  believes  in  himself.  But  I 
hope  you  '11  be  cautious." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  cautious,"  asserted  John.    "  I  'd 

be  a  good  deal  richer  man  to-day  if  I  had  n't 

been  so  cautious.    I  Ve  spent  a  lot  of  time 

and    money   looking    into    things.     I  '11   get 

25 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

there,  if  caution  '11  do  it.  Now,  Emeline 
she's  impulsive;  she  has  to  be  held  back; 
she  never  examines  into  anything:  but  I'm 
just  the  other  way." 

In  spite  of  Palmerston's  warning  and  Mrs. 
Dysart's  fears,  temporal  and  spiritual,  nego 
tiations  between  Dysart  and  Brownell  made 
rapid  progress.  The  newcomer's  tent  was 
pitched  upon  the  twenty  acres  selected,  and 
gleamed  white  against  the  mountain-side, 
suggesting  to  Palmerston's  idle  vision  a  sail 
becalmed  upon  a  sage-green  sea.  "  Dysart's 
ship,  which  will  probably  never  come  in," 
he  said  to  himself,  looking  at  it  with  visible 
indignation,  one  morning,  as  he  sat  at  his 
tent  door  in  that  state  of  fuming  indolence 
which  the  male  American  calls  taking  a  rest. 

"  Practically  there  is  little  difference  be 
tween  a  knave  and  a  fool,"  he  fretted;  "  it 's 
the  difference  between  the  gun  that  is  loaded 
and  the  one  that  is  not:  in  the  long  run  the 
unloaded  gun  does  the  more  mischief.  A 
self-absorbed  fool  is  a  knave.  After  all,  dis 
honesty  is  only  abnormal  selfishness;  it's  a 
question  of  degree.  Hello,  Dysart!  "  he  said 

26 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

aloud,  as  his  host  appeared  around  the  tent. 
"  How  goes  it?" 

"Slow,"  said  John  emphatically,  "slow. 
I  'm  feeling  my  way  like  a  cat,  and  the  pro 
fessor  he  ?s  just  about  as  cautious  as  I  am. 
We're  a  good  team.  He's  been  over  the 
canon  six  times,  and  every  time  that  machine 
of  his'n  gives  him  a  new  idea.  He  's  getting 
it  down  to  a  fine  point.  He  wanted  to  go  up 
again  to-day,  but  I  guess  he  can't." 

"What's  up?"  inquired  Palmerston  in 
differently. 

"Well,  his  daughter  wrote  him  she  was 
coming  this  afternoon,  and  somebody  '11 
have  to  meet  her  down  at  Malaga  when 
the  train  comes  in.  I've  just  been  oiling 
up  the  top-buggy,  and  I  thought  maybe  if 
you  "  — 

"Why,  certainly,"  interrupted  Palmer 
ston,  responding  amiably  to  the  suggestion 
of  John's  manner;  "  if  you  think  the  young 
lady  will  not  object,  I  shall  be  delighted. 
What  time  is  the  train  due  ?  " 

"Now,  that's  just  what  I  told  Emeline," 
said  John  triumphantly.  "  He  'd  liever  go 

27 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

than  not,  says  I;  if  he  would  n't  then  young 
folks  has  changed  since  I  can  remember. 
The  train  gets  there  about  two  o'clock.  If 
you  jog  along  kind  of  comfortable  you  '11 
be  home  before  supper.  If  the  girl 's  as 
smart  as  her  father,  you  '11  have  a  real  nice 
visit." 

Mrs.  Dysart  viewed  the  matter  with  a 
pessimism  which  was  scarcely  to  be  dis 
tinguished  from  conventionality. 

"  I  think  it 's  a  kind  of  an  imposition,  Mr. 
Palmerston,"  she  said,  as  her  boarder  was 
about  to  start,  "  sendin'  you  away  down 
there  for  a  total  stranger.  It 's  a  good  thing 
you  're  not  bashful.  Some  young  men  would 
be  terribly  put  out.  I  'm  sure  Jawn  would 
'a'  been  at  your  age.  But  my  father  would  n't 
have  sent  a  strange  young  man  after  one 
of  his  daughters  —  he  knowed  us  too  well. 
My,  oh!  just  to  think  of  it!  I  'd  have  fell  all 
in  a  heap." 

Palmerston  ventured  a  hope  that  the 
young  lady  would  not  be  completely  un 
nerved. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  frettin'  about  her"  said  his 
28 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

hostess.  "  I  don't  doubt  she  can  take  care 
of  herselt.  If  she  ?s  like  some  of  her  folks, 
she  '11  talk  you  blind." 

Palmerston  drove  away  to  hide  the  smile 
that  teased  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  The  good  woman  has  the  instincts  of 
a  chaperon,  without  the  traditions,"  he  re 
flected,  letting  his  smile  break  into  a  laugh. 
"  Her  sympathy  is  with  the  weaker  sex 
when  it  comes  to  a  personal  encounter.  We 
may  need  her  services  yet,  who  knows  ?  " 

Malaga  was  a  flag-station,  and  the  shed 
which  was  supposed  to  shelter  its  occa 
sional  passengers  from  the  heat  of  summer 
and  the  rain  of  winter  was  flooded  with 
afternoon  sunshine.  Palmerston  drove  into 
the  square  shadow  of  the  shed  roof,  and 
set  his  feet  comfortably  upon  the  dashboard 
while  he  waited.  He  was  not  aware  of  any 
very  lively  curiosity  concerning  the  young 
woman  for  whom  he  was  waiting.  That  he 
had  formed  some  nebulous  hypothesis  of 
vulgarity  was  evidenced  by  his  whimsical 
hope  that  her  prevailing  atmosphere  would 
not  be  musk;  aggressive  perfumery  of  some 

29 


THE    WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

sort  seemed  inevitable.  He  found  himself 
wondering  what  trait  in  her  father  had  led 
him  to  this  deduction,  and  drifted  idly  about 
in  the  haze  of  heredity  until  the  whistle  of 
the  locomotive  warned  him  to  withdraw  his 
feet  from  their  elevation  and  betake  himself 
to  the  platform.  Half  a  minute  later  the  en 
gine  panted  onward  and  the  young  man 
found  himself,  with  uplifted  hat,  confront 
ing  a  slender  figure  clad  very  much  as  he 
was,  save  for  the  skirt  that  fell  in  straight, 
dark  folds  to  the  ground. 

"  Miss  Brownell  ?  "  inquired  Palmerston 
smiling. 

The  young  woman  looked  at  him  with 
evident  surprise. 

"  Where  is  my  father  ? "  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"  He  was  unable  to  come.  He  regretted 
it  very  much.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  take 
his  place.  Allow  me "  —  He  stooped  to 
ward  her  satchel. 

"Unable  to  come  —  is  he  ill?"  pursued 
the  girl,  without  moving. 

"Oh,  no,"  explained  Palmerston  hastily; 
3° 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"  he  is  quite  well.  It  was  something  else  — 
some  matter  of  business." 

"  Business!  "  repeated  the  young  woman, 
with  ineffable  scorn. 

She  turned  and  walked  rapidly  toward 
the  buggy.  Palmerston  followed  with  her 
satchel.  She  gave  him  a  preoccupied 
"  Thank  you  "  as  he  assisted  her  to  a  seat 
and  shielded  her  dress  with  the  shabby 
robe. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  busi 
ness  of  my  father's  ?  "  she  asked  as  they 
drove  away. 

"Very  little;  it  is  between  him  and  Mr. 
Dysart,  with  whom  I  am  boarding.  Mr.  Dy- 
sart  has  mentioned  it  to  me."  The  young 
man  spoke  with  evident  reluctance.  His 
companion  turned  her  clear,  untrammeled 
gaze  upon  him. 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid  to  say  what  you 
think.  Of  course  it  is  all  nonsense,"  she  said 
bitterly. 

Palmerston  colored  under  her  intent  gaze, 
and  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  have  said  what  I  think  to  Mr.  Dysart. 
31 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

Don't  you  really  mean  that  I  need  not  be 
afraid  to  say  what  you  think  ?  " 

She  was  still  looking  at  him,  or  rather  at 
the  place  where  he  was.  She  turned  a  little 
more  when  he  spoke,  and  regarded  him  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  materialized. 

"  I  think  it  is  all  nonsense,"  she  said 
gravely,  as  if  she  were  answering  a  ques 
tion.  Then  she  turned  away  again  and 
knitted  her  brows.  Palmerston  glanced 
covertly  now  and  then  at  her  profile,  un 
willingly  aware  of  its  beauty.  She  was 
handsome,  strikingly,  distinguishedly  hand 
some,  he  said  to  himself;  but  there  was 
something  lacking.  It  must  be  femininity, 
since  he  felt  the  lack  and  was  masculine. 
He  smiled  to  think  how  much  alike  they 
must  appear  —  he  and  this  very  gentlemanly 
young  woman  beside  him.  He  thought  of 
her  soft  felt  hat  and  the  cut  of  her  dark- 
blue  coat,  and  there  arose  in  him  a  rigidly 
subdued  impulse  to  offer  her  a  cigar,  to  ask 
her  if  she  had  a  daily  paper  about  her,  to  — 
She  turned  upon  him  suddenly,  her  eyes  full 
of  tears. 

32 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"I  am  crying!''  she  exclaimed  angrily. 
"  How  unspeakably  silly!  " 

Palmerston's  heart  stopped  with  that 
nameless  terror  which  the  actual  man  always 
experiences  when  confronted  by  this  phase 
of  the  ideal  woman.  He  had  been  so  serene, 
so  comfortable,  under  the  unexpected  that 
there  flashed  into  his  mind  a  vague  sense  of 
injury  that  she  should  surprise  him  in  this 
way  with  the  expected.  It  was  inconsiderate, 
inexcusable;  then,  with  an  inconsistency 
worthy  of  a  better  sex,  he  groped  after  an 
excuse  for  the  inexcusable. 

"  You  are  very  nervous  —  your  journey 
has  tired  you  —  you  are  not  strong,"  he 
pleaded. 

"  I  am  not  nervous,"  insisted  the  young 
woman  indignantly.  "I  have  no  nerves  — 
I  detest  them.  And  I  am  quite  as  strong  as 
you  are."  The  young  fellow  winced.  "  It  is 
not  that.  It  is  only  because  I  cannot  have 
my  own  way.  I  cannot  make  people  do  as  I 
wish."  She  spoke  with  a  heat  that  seemed 
to  dry  her  tears. 

Palmerston  sank  back  and  let  the  case  go 
33 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

by  default.  "  If  you  like  that  view  of  it 
better  "  — 

"  I  like  the  truth,"  the  girl  broke  in  vehe 
mently.  "I  am  so  tired  of  talk!  Why  must 
we  alwa}^  cover  up  the  facts  with  a  lot  of 
platitudes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Palmerston 
lightly.  "  I  suppose  there  ought  to  be  a 
skeleton  of  truth  under  all  we  say,  but  one 
does  n't  need  to  rattle  his  bones  to  prove 
that  he  has  them." 

The  girl  laughed.  Palmerston  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  reassuring  in  her 
laugh. 

"  It  might  not  be  cheerful,"  she  admitted, 
"  but  it  would  be  honest,  and  we  might  learn 
to  like  it.  Besides,  the  truth  is  not  always 
disagreeable." 

"  Would  n't  the  monotony  of  candor  appal 
us  ?  "  urged  Palmerston.  "  Is  n't  it  possible 
that  our  deceptions  are  all  the  individuality 
we  have  ?  " 

"Heaven  forbid!"  said  his  companion 
curtly. 

They  drove  on  without  speaking.  The 
34 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

young  man  was  obstinately  averse  to  break 
ing  the  silence,  which,  nevertheless,  annoyed 
him.  He  had  a  theory  that  feminine  chatter 
was  disagreeable.  Just  why  he  should  feel 
aggrieved  that  this  particular  young  woman 
did  not  talk  to  him  he  could  not  say.  No 
doubt  he  would  have  resented  with  high  dis 
dain  the  suggestion  that  his  vanity  had  been 
covertly  feeding  for  years  upon  the  anxiety 
of  young  women  to  make  talk  for  his  diver 
sion. 

"  Do  you  think  my  father  has  closed  his 
agreement  with  this  man  of  whom  you  were 
speaking  —  this  Mr.  Dysart?"  asked  Miss 
Brownell,  returning  to  the  subject  as  if  they 
had  never  left  it. 

"I  am  very  certain  he  has  not;  at  least, 
he  had  not  this  morning,"  rejoined  Palmer- 
ston. 

"  I  wish  it  might  be  prevented,"  she  said 
earnestly,  with  a  note  of  appeal. 

"  I  have  talked  with  Dysart,  but  my  argu 
ments  fail  to  impress  him;  perhaps  you  may 
be  more  successful." 

Palmerston  was  aware  of  responding  to 
35 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

her  tone  rather  than  to  her  words.  The  girl 
shook  her  head. 

"  I  can  do  nothing.  People  who  have  only 
common  sense  are  at  a  terrible  disadvantage 
when  it  comes  to  argument.  I  know  it  is  all 
nonsense;  but  a  great  many  people  seem  to 
prefer  nonsense.  I  believe  my  father  would 
die  if  he  were  reduced  to  bare  facts." 

"There  is  something  in  that,"  laughed 
Palmerston.  "  A  theory  makes  a  very  com 
fortable  mental  garment,  if  it  is  roomy 
enough." 

The  young  woman  turned  and  glanced  at 
him  curiously,  as  if  she  could  not  divine  what 
he  was  laughing  at. 

"  They  are  like  children  —  such  people. 
My  father  is  like  a  child.  He  does  not  live 
in  the  world;  he  cannot  defend  himself." 

Palmerston's  skepticism  rushed  into  his 
face.  The  girl  looked  at  him,  and  the  color 
mounted  to  her  forehead. 

"You  do  not  believe  in  him! "  she  broke 
out.  "It  cannot  be  —  you  cannot  think  — 
you  do  not  know  him !  " 

"I  know  very  little  of  your  father's  theo- 
36 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

ries,  Miss  Brownell,"  protested  Palmerston. 
"You  cannot  blame  me  if  I  question  them; 
you  seem  to  question  them  yourself." 

"  His  theories  —  I  loathe  them !  "  She 
spoke  with  angry  emphasis.  "  It  is  not  that; 
it  is  himself.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that 
yOU  —  that  any  one  "  — 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Palmerston; 
"  we  were  speaking  of  his  theories.  I  have 
no  desire  to  discuss  your  father." 

He  knew  his  tone  was  resentful.  He 
found  himself  wondering  whether  it  was  an 
excess  of  egotism  or  of  humility  that  made 
her  ignore  his  personality. 

"Why  should  we  not  discuss  him?"  she 
asked,  turning  her  straightforward  eyes  upon 

him. 

"Because"  —  Palmerston  broke  into  an 
impatient  laugh  —  "  because  we  are  not  dis 
embodied  spirits;  at  least,  I  am  not." 

The  girl  gave  him  a  look  of  puzzled  in 
comprehension,  and  turned  back  to  her  own 
thoughts.  That  they  were  troubled  thoughts 
her  face  gave  abundant  evidence.  Palmer 
ston  waited  curiously  eager  for  some  mani- 

37 


THE   WIZARD'S    DAUGHTER 

festation  of  social  grace,  some  comment  on 
the  scenery  which  should  lead  by  the  wind 
ing  path  of  young-ladyism  to  the  Mecca  of 
her  personal  tastes  and  preferences;  should 
unveil  that  sacred  estimate  of  herself  which 
she  so  gladly  shared  with  others,  but  which 
others  too  often  failed  to  share  with  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  all  you  know 
about  it,"  she  said  presently,  "  this  proposi 
tion  my  father  has  made.  He  writes  me  very 
indefinitely,  and  sometimes  it  is  hard  for  me 
to  learn,  even  when  I  am  with  him,  just 
what  he  is  doing.  He  forgets  that  he  has 
not  told  me." 

The  young  man  hesitated,  weighing  the 
difficulties  that  would  beset  him  if  he  should 
attempt  to  explain  his  hesitation,  seeing  also 
the  more  tangible  difficulties  of  evasion  if 
she  should  turn  her  clear  eyes  upon  him. 
It  would  be  better  for  Dysart  if  she  knew, 
he  said  to  himself.  They  had  made  no  secret 
of  the  transaction,  and  sooner  or  later  she 
must  hear  of  it  from  others,  if  not  from  her 
father.  He  yielded  to  the  infection  of  her 
candor,  and  told  her  what  she  asked.  She 

38 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

listened  with  knitted  brows  and  an  intro 
spective  glance. 

"Mr.  Dysart  might  lose  his  work,"  she 
commented  tentatively. 

Palmerston  was  silent. 

The  girl  turned  abruptly.  "  Could  he  lose 
anything  else  ?  "  The  color  swept  across  her 
face,  and  her  voice  had  a  half-pathetic  men 
ace  in  it. 

"Every  business  arrangement  is  uncer 
tain,  contains  a  possibility  of  loss." 

Palmerston  was  defiantly  aware  that  he 
had  not  answered  her  question.  He  empha 
sized  his  defiance  by  jerking  the  reins. 

"Don't!  "said  the  girl  reproachfully.  "I 
think  his  mouth  is  tender." 

"  You  like  horses  ?  "  inquired  the  young 
man,  with  a  sensation  of  relief. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No;  I  think  not.  I 
never  notice  them  except  when  they  seem 
uncomfortable." 

"  But  if  you  did  n't  like  them  you  would 
n't  care." 

"Oh,  yes,   I  should.    I  don't  like  to  see 
anything  uncomfortable." 
39 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

Palmerston  laughed.  "You  have  made 
me  very  uncomfortable,  and  you  do  not 
seem  to  mind.  I  must  conclude  that  you 
have  not  noticed  it,  and  that  conclusion 
hurts  my  vanity." 

The  young  woman  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"  I  try  to  be  candid,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am 
always  being  misunderstood.  I  think  I  must 
be  very  stupid." 

Her  companion  began  to  breathe  more 
freely.  She  was  going  to  talk  of  herself, 
after  all.  He  was  perfectly  at  home  when 
it  came  to  that. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said  graciously;  "you 
only  make  the  rest  of  us  appear  stupid.  We 
are  at  a  disadvantage  when  we  get  what 
we  do  not  expect,  and  none  of  us  expect 
candor." 

"But  if  we  tell  the  truth  ourselves,  I 
don't  see  why  we  should  n't  expect  it  from 
others." 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  we  ourselves  tell  the  truth." 

"  I  think  you  have  been  telling  me  the 
truth,"  she  said,  turning  her  steadfast  eyes 
upon  him. 

40 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"Thank  you,"  said  Palmerston  lightly. 
"  I  hope  my  evident  desire  for  approval 
does  n't  suggest  a  sense  of  novelty  in  my 
position." 

Miss  Brownell  smiled  indulgently,  and 
then  knitted  her  brows.  "I  am  glad  you 
have  told  me,"  she  said;  "  I  may  not  be  able 
to  help  it,  but  it  is  better  for  me  to  know." 

They  were  nearing  the  Dysart  house,  and 
Palmerston  remembered  that  he  had  no  de 
finite  instruction  concerning  the  newcomer's 
destination. 

"  I  think  I  will  take  her  directly  to  her 
father's  tent,"  he  reflected,  "and  let  Mrs. 
Dysart  plan  her  own  attack  upon  the  social 
situation." 

When  he  had  done  this  and  returned  to 
his  boarding-place,  there  was  a  warmth  in 
the  greeting  of  his  worthy  hostess  which 
suggested  a  sense  of  his  recent  escape  from 
personal  danger. 

"  I  'm  real  glad  to  see  you  safe  home,  Mr. 
Palmerston,"  she  said  amply.  "  I  don't  won 
der  you  look  fagged;  the  ride  through  the 
dust  was  hard  enough  without  having  all 

41 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

sorts  of  other  things  to  hatchel  you.  I  do 
hope  you  won't  have  that  same  kind  of  a 
phthisicky  ketch  in  your  breath  that  you  had 
the  other  night  after  you  overdone.  I  think 
it  was  mostly  nervousness,  and,  dear  knows, 
you  Ve  had  enough  to  make  you  nervous 
to-day.  I  told  Jawn  after  you  was  gone  that 
I  'd  hate  to  be  answerable  for  the  conse 
quences." 

Two  days  later  John  Dysart  came  into 
Palmerston's  tent,  and  drew  a  camp-stool 
close  to  the  young  man's  side. 

"  I  'm  in  a  kind  of  a  fix,"  he  said,  seating 
himself  and  fastening  his  eyes  on  the  floor 
with  an  air  of  profound  self-commiseration. 
"  You  see,  this  girl  of  Brownell's  she  came 
up  where  I  was  mending  the  flume  yester 
day,  and  we  got  right  well  acquainted.  She 
seems  friendly.  She  took  off  her  coat  and 
laid  it  on  a  boulder,  and  we  set  down  there 
in  our  shirt-sleeves  and  had  quite  a  talk.  I 
think  she  means  all  right,  but  she  's  vision 
ary.  I  can't  understand  it,  living  with  a  prac 
tical  man  like  the  professor.  But  you  can't 
always  tell.  Now,  there 's  Emeline.  Em- 

42 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

eline  means  well,  but  she  lets  her  prejudices 
run  away  with  her  judgment.  I  guess  women 
generally  do.  But,  someway,  this  girl  rather 
surprised  me.  When  I  first  saw  her  I  thought 
she  looked  kind  of  reasonable ;  maybe  it 
was  her  cravat  —  I  don't  know." 

John  shook  his  head  in  a  baffled  way.  He 
had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  the  handkerchief 
which  he  had  spread  over  his  bald  crown  to 
protect  it  from  the  flies  drooped  pathetically 
about  his  honest  face. 

"What  did  Miss  Brownell  say?"  asked 
Palmerston,  flushing  a  little. 

John  looked  at  him  absently  from  under 
his  highly  colored  awning.  "The  girl?  Oh, 
she  don't  understand.  She  wanted  me  to  be 
careful.  I  told  her  I  'd  been  careful  all  my 
life,  and  I  was  n't  likely  to  rush  into  anything 
now.  She  thinks  her  father 's  'most  too  san 
guine  about  the  water,  but  she  does  n't  un 
derstand  the  machine  —  I  could  see  that. 
She  said  she  was  afraid  I  'd  lose  something, 
and  she  wants  me  to  back  out  right  now. 
I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  want 
to  treat  everybody  right." 

43 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"Including  yourself,  I  hope,"  suggested 
Palmerston. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  don't  feel  quite  able 
to  give  up  all  my  prospects  just  for  a  no 
tion;  and  yet  I  want  to  do  the  square  thing 
by  Emeline.  It 's  queer  about  women  — 
especially  Emeline.  I  've  often  thought  if 
there  was  only  men  it  would  be  easier  to 
make  up  your  mind;  but  still,  I  suppose  we  'd 
ought  n't  to  feel  that  way.  They  don't  mean 
any  harm." 

John  drew  the  protecting  drapery  from 
his  head,  and  lashed  his  bald  crown  with  it 
softly,  as  if  in  punishment  for  his  seeming 
disloyalty. 

"  You  could  withdraw  from  the  contract 
now  without  any  great  loss  to  Mr.  Brownell," 
suggested  Palmerston. 

John  looked  at  him  blankly.  "  Why,  of 
course  he  would  n't  lose  anything;  I  'd  be 
the  loser.  But  I  have  n't  any  notion  of  doing 
that.  I  'm  only  wondering  whether  I  ought 
to  tell  Emeline  about  the  girl.  You  see, 
Emeline  's  kind  of  impulsive,  and  she 's 
took  a  dead  set  against  the  girl  because,  you 

44 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

see,  she  thinks," — John  leaned  forward  con 
fidentially  and  shut  one  eye,  as  if  he  were 
squinting  along  his  recital  to  see  that  it  was 
in  line  with  the  facts,  — "  you  see,  she 
thinks  —  well,  I  don't  know  as  I  'd  ought  to 
take  it  on  myself  to  say  just  what  Emeline 
thinks,  but  I  think  she  thinks  —  well,  I  don't 
know  as  I  'd  ought  to  say  what  I  think  she 
thinks,  either;  but  you  'd  understand  if  you  'd 
been  married." 

"  Oh,  I  can  understand,"  asserted  the  young 
man.  "  Mrs.  Dysart's  position  is  very  natu 
ral.  But  I  think  you  should  tell  her  what 
Miss  Brownell  advises.  There  is  no  other 
woman  near,  and  it  will  prove  very  uncom 
fortable  for  the  young  lady  if  your  wife  re 
mains  unfriendly  toward  her.  You  certainly 
don't  want  to  be  unjust,  Dysart." 

John  shook  his  head  dolorously  over  this 
extension  of  his  moral  obligations. 

"No,"  he  declared  valiantly;  "I  want  to 
be  square  with  everybody;  but  I  don't  want 
to  prejudice  Emeline  against  the  professor, 
and  I  'm  afraid  this  would.  You  see,  Eme 
line  's  this  way  —  well,  I  don't  know  as  I  'd 

45 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

ought  to  say  just  how  Emeline  is,  but  you 
know  she  's  an  auoful good  woman!" 

John  leaned  forward  and  gave  the  last 
three  words  a  slow  funereal  emphasis  which 
threatened  his  companion's  gravity. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  Palmerston  broke  out 
quickly ;  "  Mrs.  Dysart  's  a  good  woman,  and 
she  's  a  very  smart  woman,  too  j  she  has  good 
ideas." 

"Yes,  yes;  Emeline  ?s  smart,"  John  made 
haste  to  acquiesce ;  "  she  's  smart  as  far  as 
she  knows,  but  when  she  don't  quite  un 
derstand,  then  she 's  prejudiced.  I  guess 
women  are  generally  prejudiced  about  ma 
chinery  ;  they  can't  be  expected  to  see  into 
it:  but  still,  if  you  think  I'd  ought  to  tell 
her  what  this  Brownell  girl  says,  why,  I  'm 
a-going  to  do  it." 

John  got  up  with  the  air  of  a  man  harassed 
but  determined,  and  went  out  of  the  tent. 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Dysart  put  on 
her  beaded  dolman  and  her  best  bonnet  and 
panted  through  the  tar-weed  to  call  upon  her 
new  neighbor.  Palmerston  watched  the  good 
woman's  departure,  and  awaited  her  return, 

46 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

taunting  himself  remorselessly  meanwhile 
for  the  curiosity  which  prompted  him  to  place 
a  decoy-chair  near  his  tent  door,  and  exult 
ing  shamefacedly  at  the  success  of  his  ruse 
when  she  sank  into  it  with  the  interrogative 
glance  with  which  fat  people  always  commit 
themselves  to  furniture. 

"  Well,  I  've  been  to  see  her,  and  I  must 
say,  for  a  girl  that  's  never  found  grace,  she 's 
about  the  straightforwardest  person  I  ever 
came  across.  I  know  I  was  prejudiced." 
Mrs.  Dysart  took  off  her  bonnet,  a  sacred 
edifice  constructed  of  cotton  velvet,  frowzy 
feathers,  and  red  glass  currants,  and  gazed 
at  it  penitentially.  "  That  father  of  hers  is 
enough  to  prejudice  a  saint.  But  the  girl 
ain't  to  blame.  I  think  she  must  have  had  a 
prayin'  mother,  though  she  says  she  does  n't 
remember  anything  about  her  exceptin'  her 
clothes,  which  does  sound  worldly." 

Mrs.  Dysart  straightened  out  the  varnished 
muslin  leaves  of  her  horticultural  head-gear, 
and  held  the  structure  at  arm's  length  with 
a  sigh  of  gratified  sense  and  troubled  spirit. 

"  I  invited  her  to  come  to  the  mothers' 
47 


THE   WIZARD'S  DAUGHTER 

meetin'  down  at  Mrs.  Stearns's  in  the  wash 
with  me  next  Thursday  afternoon,  and  I  'm 
goin'  to  have  her  over  to  dinner  some  day 
when  the  old  perfessor  ?s  off  on  a  tramp.  I 
try  to  have  Christian  grace,  but  I  can't  quite 
go  him,  though  I  would  like  to  see  the  girl 
brought  into  the  fold." 

Palmerston  remembered  the  steadfast  eyes 
of  the  wanderer,  and  wondered  how  they 
had  met  all  this.  His  companion  replaced 
the  bonnet  on  her  head,  where  it  lurched  a 
little,  by  reason  of  insufficient  skewering,  as 
she  got  up. 

"  Then  you  were  pleased  with  Miss 
Brownell  ?  "  the  young  man  broke  out,  rather 
senselessly,  he  knew  —  aware,  all  at  once,  of 
a  desire  to  hear  more. 

Mrs.  Dysart  did  not  sit  down. 

"Yes,"  she  said  judicially;  "for  a  girl 
without  any  bringin'  up,  and  with  no  reli 
gious  inflooences,  and  no  mother  and  no 
father  to  speak  of,  I  think  she 's  full  as  good 
as  some  that  ?s  had  more  chances.  I  've  got 
to  go  and  start  a  fire  now,"  she  went  on, 
with  an  air  of  willingness  but  inability  to 

48 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

continue  the  subject.  "  There 's  Jawn  comin' 
after  the  milk-pail;  I  do  wish  he  could  be 
brought  to  listen  to  reason." 

Palmerston  watched  the  good  woman  as 
she  labored  down  the  path,  her  dusty  skirts 
drawn  close  about  her  substantial  ankles,  and 
the  beaded  dolman  glittering  unfeelingly  in 
the  sun. 

"  I  hope  she  has  a  sense  of  humor,"  he  said 
to  himself.  Then  he  got  up  hastily,  went 
into  the  tent,  and  brought  out  a  letter,  which 
he  read  carefully  from  the  beginning  to  the 
signature  scribbled  in  the  upper  corner  of  the 
first  page  —  "  Your  own  Bess."  After  that 
he  sat  quite  still,  letting  his  glance  play  with 
the  mists  of  the  valley,  until  Mrs.  Dysart 
rang  the  supper-bell. 

"  If  she  has  a  sense  of  humor,  how  much 
she  must  enjoy  her!  "  he  said  to  himself,  with 
the  confusion  of  pronouns  we  all  allow  our 
selves  and  view  with  such  scorn  in  others. 

When  a  man  first  awakes  to  the  fact  that  he 
is  thinking  of  the  wrong  woman,  it  is  always 
with  a  comfortable  sense  of  certainty  that  he 

49 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

can  change  his  attitude  of  mind  by  a  slight 
effort  of  the  will.  If  he  does  not  make  the 
effort,  it  is  only  because  he  is  long  past  the 
necessity  of  demonstrating  himself  to  himself, 
and  not  from  any  fickleness  of  fancy  on  his 
own  part.  It  was  in  this  comfortable  state  of 
certainty  that  Sidney  Palmerston  betook  him 
self,  a  few  days  later,  to  the  Brownell  tent, 
armed  with  a  photograph  which  might  have 
been  marked  "  Exhibit  A  "  in  the  case  which 
he  was  trying  with  himself  before  his  own 
conscience.  If  there  was  in  his  determination 
to  place  himself  right  with  Miss  Brownell 
any  trace  of  solicitude  for  the  young  woman, 
to  the  credit  of  his  modesty  be  it  said,  he  had 
not  formulated  it.  Perhaps  there  was.  A  be 
lief  in  the  general  overripeness  of  feminine 
affection,  and  a  discreet  avoidance  of  shaking 
the  tree  upon  which  it  grows,  have  in  some 
way  become  a  part  of  masculine  morals,  and 
Sidney  Palmerston  was  still  young  enough 
to  take  himself  seriously. 

Miss  Brownell  had  moved  a  table  out 
side  the  tent,  and  was  bending  over  a  map 
fastened  to  it  by  thumb-tacks. 

5° 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"  I  am  trying  to  find  out  what  my  father 
is  doing,"  she  said,  looking  straight  into  Pal- 
merston's  eyes  without  a  word  of  greeting. 
"  I  suppose  you  know  they  are  about  to  be 
gin  work  on  the  tunnel." 

The  young  man  was  beginning  to  be  a 
trifle  tired  of  the  tunnel.  "  Dysart  mentioned 
it  yesterday,"  he  said.  "May  I  sit  down, 
Miss  Brownell  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  start,  and  went  into  the 
tent  for  another  chair.  When  she  reappeared, 
Palmerston  met  her  at  the  tent  door  and  took 
the  camp-chair  from  her  hand. 

"I  want  to  sit  here,"  he  said  willfully, 
turning  his  back  toward  the  table.  "  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  the  tunnel;  I  want  to  turn 
the  conversation  upon  agreeable  things  — 
myself,  for  instance." 

She  frowned  upon  him  smilingly,  and  put 
her  hand  to  her  cheek  with  a  puzzled  ges 
ture. 

"  Have  I  talked  too  much  about  the  tun 
nel?"  she  asked.  "I  thought  something 
might  be  done  to  stop  it." 

Palmerston  shook  his  head.  "  You  have 
51 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

done  everything  in  your  power.  Dysart  has 
been  fairly  warned.  Besides,  who  knows?" 
he  added  rather  flippantly.  "They  may 
strike  a  hundred  inches  of  water,  as  your 
father  predicts." 

"  I  have  not  been  objecting  merely  to  rid 
myself  of  responsibility;  I  have  never  felt 
any.  I  only  wanted  —  I  hoped "  —  She 
stopped,  aware  of  the  unresponsive  chill  that 
always  came  at  mention  of  her  father.  "I 
know  he  is  honest." 

"  Of  course,"  protested  Palmerston,  with 
artificial  warmth;  "and,  really,  I  think  the 
place  for  the  work  is  well  selected.  I  am  not 
much  of  an  engineer,  but  I  went  up  the  other 
day  and  looked  about,  and  there  are  certainly 
indications  of  water.  I  "  —  he  stopped  sud 
denly,  aware  of  his  mistake. 

The  girl  had  not  noticed  it.  "  I  wish  I 
could  make  people  over,"  she  said,  curling 
her  fingers  about  her  thumb,  and  striking 
the  arm  of  her  chair  with  the  soft  side  of  the 
resultant  fist,  after  the  manner  of  women. 

Her  companion  laughed. 

"Not  every  person,  I  hope;  not  this  one, 
52 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

at  least."  He  drew  the  photograph  from  his 
breast  pocket  and  held  it  toward  her.  She 
took  it  from  him,  and  looked  at  it  absently 
an  instant. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl !  "  she  said,  handing 
it  back  to  him.  "  Your  sister?  " 

The  young  man  flushed.  "No;  my  fian 
cee." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  took  the  card 
again,  looking  at  it  with  fresh  eyes. 

"  A  very  pretty  girl,"  she  said.  "  What  is 
her  name  ? " 

"  Elizabeth  Arnold." 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?  " 

Palmerston  mentioned  a  village  in  Michi 
gan.  His  companion  gave  another  glance  at 
the  picture,  and  laid  it  upon  the  arm  of  the 
chair.  The  young  man  rescued  it  from  her 
indifference  with  a  little  irritable  jerk.  She 
was  gazing  unconsciously  toward  the  hori 
zon. 

"  Don't  you  intend  to  congratulate  me  ?  " 
he  inquired  with  a  nettled  laugh. 

She  turned  quickly,  flushing  to  her  fore 
head.  "  Pardon  me.  I  said  she  was  very 

53 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

pretty  —  I  thought  young  men  found  that 
quite  sufficient.  I  have  never  heard  them 
talk  much  of  girls  in  any  other  way.  But 
perhaps  I  should  have  told  you:  I  care  very 
little  about  photographs,  especially  of  wo 
men.  They  never  look  like  them.  They 
always  make  me  think  of  paper  dolls." 

She  halted  between  her  sentences  with 
an  ungirlish  embarrassment  which  Palmer- 
ston  was  beginning  to  find  dangerously  at 
tractive. 

"  But  the  women  themselves  —  you  find 
them  interesting  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  some  of  them.  Mrs.  Dysart, 
for  instance.  As  soon  as  she  learned  I  had 
no  mother,  she  invited  me  to  a  mothers' 
meeting.  I  thought  that  very  interesting." 

"Very  sensible,  too.  They  are  mostly 
childless  mothers,  and  a  sprinkling  of  mo 
therless  children  will  add  zest  to  the  assem 
blage." 

They  both  laughed,  and  the  young  man's 
laugh  ended  in  a  cough.  The  girl  glanced 
uneasily  toward  the  bank  of  fog  that  was 
sweeping  across  the  valley. 

54 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

"  Mr.  Palmerston,"  she  said,  "  the  fog  is 
driving  in  very  fast,  and  it  is  growing  quite 
damp  and  chilly.  I  think  you  ought  to  go 
home.  Wait  a  minute,"  she  added,  hurrying 
into  the  tent  and  returning  with  a  soft  gray 
shawl.  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  cold;  let  me 
put  this  about  your  shoulders." 

She  threw  it  around  him  and  pinned  it 
under  his  chin,  standing  in  front  of  him  with 
her  forehead  on  a  level  with  his  lips. 

"Now  hurry!" 

A  man  does  not  submit  to  the  humiliation 
of  having  a  shawl  pinned  about  his  shoulders 
without  questioning  his  own  sanity,  and  some 
consciousness  of  this  fact  forced  itself  upon 
Palmerston  as  he  made  his  way  along  the  nar 
row  path  through  the  greasewood.  He  had 
removed  the  obnoxious  drapery,  of  course, 
and  was  vindicating  his  masculinity  by  be 
coming  very  cold  and  damp  in  the  clammy 
folds  of  the  fog  which  had  overtaken  him; 
but  the  shawl  hung  upon  his  arm  and  re 
minded  him  of  many  things  —  not  altogether 
unpleasant  things,  he  would  have  been 
obliged  to  confess  if  he  had  not  been  busy 

55 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

assuring  himself  that  he  had  no  confession  to 
make.  He  had  done  his  duty,  he  said  to  him 
self;  but  there  was  something  else  which  he 
did  not  dare  to  say  even  to  himself  —  some 
thing  which  made  him  dissatisfied  with  his 
duty  now  that  it  was  done.  Of  course  he  did 
not  expect  her  to  care  about  his  engagement, 
but  she  should  have  been  sympathetic ;  well- 
bred  women  were  always  sympathetic,  he 
argued,  arriving  at  his  conclusion  by  an  un 
answerable  transposition  of  adjectives.  He 
turned  his  light  coat  collar  up  about  his 
throat,  and  the  shawl  on  his  arm  brushed  his 
cheek  warmly.  No  man  is  altogether  color 
blind  to  the  danger-signals  of  his  own  nature. 
Did  he  really  want  her  to  care,  after  all  ?  he 
asked  himself  angrily.  He  might  have  spared 
himself  the  trouble  of  telling  her.  She  was 
absorbed  in  herself,  or,  what  was  the  same, 
in  that  unsavory  fraud  whom  she  called 
father.  The  young  man  unfastened  the  flap 
of  his  tent  nervously,  and  took  himself  in  out 
of  the  drenching  mist,  which  seemed  in  some 
way  to  have  got  into  his  brain.  He  was  an 
gry  with  himself  for  his  interest  in  these  peo- 

56 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

pie,  as  he  styled  them  in  his  lofty  self-abase 
ment.  They  were  ungrateful,  unworthy. 
His  eye  fell  upon  two  letters  propped  up  on 
his  table  in  a  manner  so  conspicuous  as  to 
suggest  a  knowledge  of  his  preoccupation 
—  as  if  some  one  were  calling  him  out  of 
his  reverie  in  an  offensively  loud  voice.  He 
turned  the  address  downward,  and  busied 
himself  in  putting  to  rights  the  articles  which 
John  had  piled  up  to  attract  his  tardy  notice. 
He  would  read  his  letters,  of  course,  but  not 
in  his  present  mood:  that  would  be  a  species 
of  sacrilege,  he  patronizingly  informed  his 
restive  conscience. 

And  he  did  read  them  later,  after  he  had 
carefully  folded  the  gray  shawl  and  placed 
it  out  of  his  range  of  vision  —  half  a  score  of 
closely  written  pages  filled  with  gentle  girl 
ish  analysis  of  the  writer's  love  and  its  unique 
manifestations,  and  ending  with  a  tepid  inter 
est  in  the  "queer  people  "  among  whom  her 
lover's  lot  was  cast.  "  It  is  very  hard,  my 
dear,"  she  wrote,  "  to  think  of  you  in  that 
lonely  place,  cut  off  from  everybody  and 
everything  interesting;  but  we  must  bear  it 

57 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

bravely,  since  it  is  to  make  you  strong  and 
well." 

Palmerston  held  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
looked  steadily  through  the  tent  window 
across  the  sea  of  fog  that  had  settled  over 
the  valley. 

"  After  all,  she  is  not  selfish,"  he  reflected; 
"  she  has  nothing  to  gain  by  saving  Dysart, 
except "  —  he  smiled  grimly  —  "  her  rascally 
father's  good  name." 

The  rains  were  late,  but  they  came  at  last, 
blowing  in  soft  and  warm  from  the  south 
east,  washing  the  dust  from  the  patient 
orange-trees  and  the  draggled  bananas,  and 
luring  countless  green  things  out  of  the 
brown  mould  of  the  mesa  into  the  winter 
sun.  Birds  fledged  in  the  golden  drought 
of  summer  went  mad  over  the  miracles 
of  rain  and  grass,  and  riotously  announced 
their  discovery  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  to  their  elders.  The  leafless  poin- 
settia  flaunted  its  scarlet  diadem  at  Palmer- 
ston's  tent  door,  a  monarch  robbed  of  all 
but  his  crown,  and  the  acacias  west  of  the 

58 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

Dysart  dooryard  burst  into  sunlit  yellow  in 
a  night. 

The  rains  had  not  been  sufficient  to  stop 
work  on  the  tunnel,  and  John  watched  its  pro 
gress  with  the  feverish  eagerness  of  an  inex 
perienced  gambler.  Now  that  it  was  fairly 
under  way,  Brownell  seemed  to  lose  interest 
in  the  result,  and  wandered,  satchel  in  hand, 
over  the  mountain-side,  leaving  fragments  of 
his  linen  duster  on  the  thorny  chaparral,  and 
devising  new  schemes  for  the  enrichment  of 
the  valley,  to  which  his  daughter  listened  at 
night  in  skeptical  silence.  Now  and  then  his 
voice  fell  from  some  overhanging  crag  in  a 
torrent  of  religious  rapture,  penetrating  the 
cabin  walls  and  trying  Mrs.  Dysart's  pious 
soul  beyond  endurance. 

"  Now  listen  to  that,  Emeline!  "  said  John, 
exultantly,  during  one  of  these  vocal  inunda 
tions.  "  He 's  a-singin'  the  doxology.  Now 
/believe  he's  a  Christian." 

Mrs.  Dysart  averted  her  face  with  a  sigh 
of  long-suffering  patience. 

"  Singin'  is  the  easiest  part  of  the  Chris 
tian  religion,  Jawn.  As  for  that,"  —  she 

59 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

jerked  her  head  toward  the  source  of  vocal 
supply,  —  "it's  soundin'  brass;  that's  what 
I  'd  say  if  I  was  settin'  in  judgment,  which 
I  thank  our  heavenly  Fawther  I  'm  not." 

"  Well,  there  goes  Mr.  Palmerston  and  the 
girl,  anyway,"  said  John,  with  eager  irrele 
vance  ;  "  they  seem  to  be  gettin'  pretty  thick." 

Mrs.  Dysart  moved  toward  the  open  win 
dow  with  piously  restrained  curiosity. 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  that  girl,"  she  said;  "  she 's 
got  one  man  more  'n  she  can  manage  now, 
without  tacklin'  another." 

"  Oh,  well,  now,  Emeline,  young  folks, 
will  be  young  folks,  you  know."  There  was 
in  John's  voice  something  dangerously  near 
satisfaction  with  this  well-known  peculiarity 
of  youth. 

"  Yes;  and  they  '11  be  old  folks,  too,  which 
most  of  'em  seems  to  forget,"  returned  Mrs. 
Dysart,  sending  a  pessimistic  glance  after 
the  retreating  couple. 

Mrs.  Dysart  was  right.  Sidney  Palmerston 
and  his  companion  were  not  thinking  of  old 
age  that  winter  day.  The  mesa  stretched  a 
mass  of  purple  lupine  at  their  feet.  There 

60 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

was  the  odor  of  spring,  the  warmth  of  sum 
mer,  the  languor  of  autumn,  in  the  air.  As 
they  neared  the  canon  the  path  grew  narrow, 
and  the  girl  walked  ahead,  turning  now  and 
then,  and  blocking  the  way,  in  the  earnestness 
of  her  speech.  They  had  long  since  ceased  to 
talk  of  the  tunnel;  Sidney  had  ceased  even 
to  think  of  it.  For  weeks  he  had  hardly  dared 
to  think  at  all.  There  had  been  at  first  the 
keen  sense  of  disappointment  in  himself 
which  comes  to  every  confident  soul  as  it 
learns  the  limitations  of  its  own  will;  then 
the  determination,  so  easy  to  youth's  fore 
shortening  view,  to  keep  the  letter  of  his 
promise  and  bury  the  spirit  out  of  his  own 
sight  and  the  sight  of  the  world  forever;  then 
the  self-pity  and  the  pleading  with  fate  for  a 
little  happiness  as  an  advance  deposit  on  the 
promise  of  lifelong  self-sacrifice;  then  the 
perfumed  days  when  thought  was  lulled  and 
duty  became  a  memory  and  a  hope.  Strangely 
enough,  it  was  always  duty,  this  unholy  thing 
which  he  meant  to  do  —  this  payment  of  a 
debt  in  base  metal,  when  the  pure  gold  of 
love  had  been  promised.  But  ethics  counted 

61 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

for  little  to-day  as  he  followed  a  figure  clad 
in  blue  serge  down  the  path  that  led  from 
the  edge  of  the  canon  to  the  bed  of  the 
stream.  Budding  willows  made  a  green  mist 
in  the  depths  below  them,  and  the  sweet, 
tarry  odors  of  the  upland  blew  across  the 
tops  of  the  sycamores  in  the  canon  and  min 
gled  with  the  smell  of  damp  leaf-mould  and 
the  freshness  of  growing  things. 

The  girl  paused  and  peered  down  into  the 
canon  inquiringly. 

"  Do  you  think  of  leaping  ?  "  asked  Palmer- 
ston. 

She  smiled  seriously,  still  looking  down. 
"No;  I  was  wondering  if  the  rainfall  had 
been  as  light  in  the  mountains  as  it  has  been 
in  the  valley,  and  how  the  water-supply  will 
hold  out  through  the  summer  if  we  have  no 
more." 

Palmerston  laughed.  "  Do  you  always 
think  of  practical  things  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  turned  and  confronted  him  with  a 
half-defiant,  half-whimsical  smile. 

"I  do  not  think  much  about  what  I  think," 
she  said;  "  I  am  too  busy  thinking." 

62 


THE  WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

As  she  spoke  she  took  a  step  backward 
and  tripped  upon  some  obstacle  in  the  path. 

Palmerston  sprang  forward  and  caught  her 
upraised  arm  with  both  hands. 

"I  —  I  —  love  you!"  he  said  eagerly, 
tightening  his  grasp,  and  then  loosening  it, 
and  falling  back  with  the  startled  air  of  one 
who  hears  a  voice  when  he  thinks  himself 
alone. 

The  young  woman  let  her  arm  fall  at  her 
side,  and  stood  still  an  instant,  looking  at 
him  with  untranslatable  eyes. 

"  You  love  me  ?  "  she  repeated  with  slow 
questioning.  "  How  can  you?  " 

Palmerston  smiled  rather  miserably.  "  Far 
more  easily  than  I  can  explain  why  I  have 
told  you,"  he  answered. 

"  If  it  is  true,  why  should  you  not  tell 
me  ?  "  she  asked,  still  looking  at  him  steadily. 

Evasion  seemed  a  drapery  of  lies  before 
her  gaze.  Palmerston  spoke  the  naked  truth : 

"  Because  I  cannot  ask  you  to  love  me  in 
return  —  because  I  have  promised  to  marry 
another  woman,  and  I  must  keep  my  pro 


mise." 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

He  made  the  last  avowal  with  the  bitter 
triumph  of  one  who  chooses  death  where  he 
might  easily  have  chosen  dishonor. 

His  listener  turned  away  a  little,  and 
looked  through  the  green  haze  of  the  canon 
at  the  snow  of  San  Antonio. 

"  You  say  that  you  love  me,  and  yet  you 
intend  to  marry  this  other  girl,  who  loves 
you,  and  live  a  lie?  "  she  asked  without  look 
ing  at  him. 

"My  God!  but  you  make  it  hard!" 
groaned  Palmerston. 

She  faced  about  haughtily. 

"I  make  it  hard!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
have  been  afraid  of  you  —  not  for  myself, 
but  for  —  for  others,  about  something  in 
which  one  might  be  mistaken.  And  you 
come  to  me  and  tell  me  this!  You  would 
cheat  a  woman  out  of  her  life,  a  girl  who 
loves  you  —  who  promised  to  marry  you  be 
cause  you  told  her  you  loved  her;  who  no 
doubt  learned  to  love  you  because  of  your 
love  for  her.  And  this  is  what  men  call 
honor!  Do  you  know  what  I  intend  to  do? 
I  intend  to  write  to  this  girl  and  tell  her 

64 


THE   WIZARD'S   DAUGHTER 

what  you  have  told  me.  Then  she  may 
marry  you  if  she  wishes.  But  she  shall 
know.  You  shall  not  feed  her  on  husks  all 
her  life,  if  I  can  help  it.  And  because  I  in 
tend  to  do  this,  even  if — even  if  I  loved 
you,  I  could  never  see  you  again!  " 

Palmerston  knew  that  he  stood  aside  to 
let  her  pass  and  walk  rapidly  out  of  the 
canon. 

The  call  of  insects  and  the  twitter  of  lin 
nets  seemed  to  deepen  into  a  roar.  A  faint 
"  halloo  "  came  from  far  up  the  mountain 
side,  and  in  the  distance  men's  voices  rang 
across  the  canon. 

A  workman  came  running  down  the  path, 
almost  stumbling  over  Palmerston  in  his 
haste. 

"  Where  's  the  old  man  —  where 's  Dy- 
sart?  "  he  panted,  wiping  his  forehead  with 
his  sleeve.  "  We  Ve  struck  a  flow  that 's 
washing  us  into  the  middle  of  next  week. 
The  old  professor  made  a  blamed  good  guess 
this  time,  sure." 


Marg'et  Ann 


i 


Marg'et  Ann 

T  was  sacrament  Sabbath  in  the  little 
Seceder  congregation  at  Blue  Mound. 
Vehicles  denoting  various  degrees  of  pros 
perity  were  beginning  to  arrive  before  the 
white  meeting-house  that  stood  in  a  patch 
of  dog-fennel  by  the  roadside. 

The  elders  were  gathered  in  a  solemn, 
bareheaded  group  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
building,  arranging  matters  of  deep  spiritual 
portent  connected  with  the  serving  of  the 
tables.  The  women  entered  the  church  as 
they  arrived,  carrying  or  leading  their  fat, 
sunburned,  awe-stricken  children,  and  sat  in 
subdued  and  reverent  silence  in  the  unpainted 
pews.  There  was  a  smell  of  pine  and  pepper 
mint  and  last  week's  gingerbread  in  the  room, 
and  a  faint  rustle  of  bonnet  strings  and  silk 
mantillas  as  each  newcomer  moved  down 
the  aisle;  but  there  was  no  turning  of  heads 
or  vain,  indecorous  curiosity  concerning 

69 


MARG'ET  ANN 

arrivals  on  the  part  of  those  already  in  the 
pews. 

Outside,  the  younger  men  moved  about 
slowly  in  their  creased  black  clothes,  or 
stood  in  groups  talking  covertly  of  the  corn 
planting  which  had  begun ;  there  was  an  ev 
ident  desire  to  compensate  by  lowered  voices 
and  lack  of  animated  speech  for  the  manifest 
irreverence  of  the  topic. 

Marg'et  Ann  and  her  mother  came  in  the 
farm  wagon,  that  the  assisting  minister,  the 
Rev.  Samuel  McClanahan,  who  was  to 
preach  the  "action  sermon,"  might  ride  in 
the  buggy  with  the  pastor.  There  were  four 
wooden  chairs  in  the  box  of  the  wagon,  and 
the  floor  was  strewn  with  sweet-scented  tim 
othy  and  clover.  Mrs.  Morrison  and  Miss 
Nancy  McClanahan,  who  had  come  with  her 
brother  from  Cedar  Township  to  communion, 
sat  in  two  of  the  chairs,  and  Marg'et  Ann 
and  her  younger  sister  occupied  the  others. 
One  of  the  boys  sat  on  the  high  spring  seat 
with  his  brother  Laban,  who  drove  the  team, 
and  the  other  children  were  distributed  on 
the  hay  between  their  elders. 

70 


MARG'ET  ANN 

Marg'et  Ann  wore  her  mother's  change 
able  silk  made  over  and  a  cottage  bonnet 
with  pink  silk  strings  and  skirt  and  a  white 
ruche  with  a  wreath  of  pink  flowers  in  the 
face  trimming.  Her  brown  hair  was  combed 
over  her  ears  like  a  sheet  of  burnished  bronze 
and  held  out  by  puff  combs,  and  she  had  a 
wide  embroidered  collar,  shaped  like  a  halo, 
fastened  by  a  cairngorm  in  a  square  set 
ting  of  gold. 

Miss  Nancy  McClanahan  and  her  mother 
talked  in  a  subdued  way  of  the  Fast  Day  ser 
vices,  and  of  the  death  of  Squire  Davidson, 
who  lived  the  other  side  of  the  creek,  and 
the  probable  result  of  Esther  Jane  Skinner's 
trouble  with  her  chest.  There  was  a  tacit 
avoidance  of  all  subjects  pertaining  to  the 
flesh  except  its  ailments,  but  there  was  no 
long-faced  hypocrisy  in  the  tones  or  manner 
of  the  two  women.  Marg'et  Ann  listened  to 
them  and  watched  the  receding  perspective 
of  the  corn  rows  in  the  brown  fields.  She 
had  her  token  tied  securely  in  the  corner  of 
her  handkerchief,  and  every  time  she  felt  it 
she  thought  regretfully  of  Lloyd  Archer. 

71 


MARG'ET   ANN 

She  had  hoped  he  would  make  a  confession 
of  faith  this  communion,  but  he  had  not  come 
before  the  session  at  all.  She  knew  he  had 
doubts  concerning  close  communion,  and  she 
had  heard  him  say  that  certain  complications 
of  predestination  and  free  will  did  not  appear 
reasonable  to  him.  Marg'et  Ann  thought  it 
very  daring  of  him  to  exact  reasonableness 
of  those  in  spiritual  high  places.  She  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  criticising  the  Cre 
ator  for  making  the  sky  blue  instead  of  green 
as  for  any  of  His  immutable  decrees  as  set 
forth  in  the  Confession  of  Faith.  It  did  not 
prevent  her  liking  Lloyd  Archer  that  her 
father  and  several  of  the  elders  whom  he  had 
ventured  to  engage  in  religious  discussion 
pronounced  him  a  dangerous  young  man, 
but  it  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  marry 
him.  So  she  had  been  quite  anxious  that  he 
should  see  his  way  clear  to  join  the  church. 
They  had  talked  about  it  during  intermis 
sion  last  Sabbath;  but  Marg'et  Ann,  having 
arrived  at  her  own  position  by  a  process  of 
complete  self-abnegation,  found  it  hard  to 
know  how  to  proceed  with  this  stalwart  sin- 

72 


MARG'ET  ANN 

ner  who  insisted  upon  understanding  things. 
It  is  true  he  spoke  humbly  enough  of  him 
self,  as  one  who  had  not  her  light,  but 
Marg'et  Ann  was  quite  aware  that  she  did 
not  believe  the  Catechism  because  she  un 
derstood  it.  She  had  no  doubt  it  could  be 
understood,  and  she  thought  regretfully  that 
Lloyd  Archer  would  be  just  the  man  to  un 
derstand  it  if  he  would  study  it  in  the  right 
spirit.  Just  what  the  right  spirit  was  she 
could  not  perhaps  have  formulated,  except 
that  it  was  the  spirit  that  led  to  belief  in  the 
Catechism.  She  had  hoped  that  he  would 
come  to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  through 
the  ministrations  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Mc- 
Clanahan,  who  was  said  to  be  very  power 
ful  in  argument;  but  he  had  found  fault  with 
Mr.  McClanahan's  logic  on  Fast  Day  in  a  way 
that  was  quite  disheartening,  and  he  evi 
dently  did  not  intend  to  come  forward  this 
communion  at  all.  Her  father  had  spoken 
several  times  in  a  very  hopeless  manner  of 
Lloyd's  continued  resistance  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  and  Marg'et  Ann  thought  with  a 
shiver  of  Squire  Atwater,  who  was  an  infidel, 
73 


MARG'ET  ANN 

and  was  supposed  by  some  to  have  commit 
ted  the  unpardonable  sin.  She  remembered 
once  when  she  and  one  of  the  younger  boys 
had  gone  into  his  meadow  for  wild  straw 
berries  he  had  come  out  and  talked  to  them 
in  a  jovial  way,  and  when  they  were  leaving, 
had  patted  her  little  brother's  head,  and  told 
him,  with  a  great,  corpulent  laugh,  to  "  ask 
his  father  how  the  devil  could  be  chained  to 
the  bottomless  pit."  She  did  not  believe 
Lloyd  could  become  like  that,  but  still  it  was 
dangerous  to  resist  the  Spirit. 

Miss  Nancy  McClanahan  had  a  bit  of  mint 
between  the  leaves  of  her  psalm-book,  and 
she  smelled  it  now  and  then  in  a  niggardly 
way,  as  if  the  senses  should  be  but  moderately 
indulged  on  the  Sabbath.  She  had  on  black 
netted  mitts  which  left  the  enlarged  knuckles 
of  her  hands  exposed,  and  there  was  a  little 
band  of  Guinea  gold  on  one  of  her  fingers, 
with  two  almost  obliterated  hearts  in  loving 
juxtaposition.  Marg'et  Ann  knew  that  she 
had  been  a  hardworking  mother  to  the  Rev. 
Samuel's  family  ever  since  the  death  of  his 
wife,  and  she  wondered  vaguely  how  it 

74 


MARG'ET  ANN 

would  seem  to  take  care  of  Laban's  children 
in  case  Lloyd  should  fail  to  make  his  peace 
with  God. 

When  they  drove  to  the  door  of  the  meet 
ing-house,  Archibald  Skinner  came  down 
the  walk  to  help  them  dismount.  Mrs.  Mor 
rison  shook  hands  with  him  kindly  and  asked 
after  his  sister's  cough,  and  whether  his 
Grandfather  Elliott  was  still  having  trouble 
with  his  varicose  veins.  She  handed  the  chil 
dren  to  him  one  by  one,  and  he  lifted  them  to 
the  ground  with  an  easy  swing,  replacing  their 
hats  above  their  tubular  curls  after  the  de 
scent,  and  grinning  good-naturedly  into  their 
round,  awe-filled,  freckled  countenances. 

Miss  Nancy  got  out  of  the  wagon  back 
wards,  making  a  maidenly  effort  to  keep  the 
connection  between  the  hem  of  her  black 
silk  skirt  and  the  top  of  her  calf-skin  shoes 
inviolate,  and  brushing  the  dust  of  the  wagon 
wheel  from  her  dress  carefully  after  her  safe 
arrival  in  the  dog-fennel.  Marg'et  Ann  ig 
nored  the  chair  which  had  been  placed 
beside  the  wagon  for  the  convenience  of  her 
elders,  and  sprang  from  the  wheel,  placing 
75 


MARG'ET   ANN 

her  hands  lightly  in  those  of  the  young  man, 
who  deposited  her  safely  beside  her  mother 
and  turned  toward  her  sister  Rebecca  with 
a  blush  that  extended  to  the  unfreckled 
spaces  of  his  hairy,  outstretched  hands,  and 
explained  his  lively  interest  in  the  disem 
barkation  of  the  family. 

Laban  drove  the  team  around  the  cor 
ner  to  a  convenient  hitching-place,  and  the 
women  and  children  went  up  the  walk  to  the 
church  door.  Mrs.  Morrison  stopped  a  mo 
ment  on  the  step  to  remove  the  hats  of  the 
younger  boys,  whose  awe  of  the  sanctuary 
seemed  to  have  deprived  them  of  volition, 
and  they  all  proceeded  down  the  aisle  to  the 
minister's  pew. 

The  pastor  and  the  Rev.  Samuel  McClan- 
ahan  were  already  in  the  pulpit,  their  pre 
sence  there  being  indicated  by  two  tufts  of 
hair,  one  black  and  the  other  sandy,  which 
arose  above  the  high  reading-desk;  and  the 
elders  having  filed  into  the  room  and  distrib 
uted  themselves  in  the  ends  of  the  various 
well-filled  pews,  the  young  men  and  boys 
followed  their  example,  the  latter  taking  a 

76 


MARG'ET  ANN 

sudden  start  at  the  door  and  projecting  them 
selves  into  their  places  with  a  concentration 
of  purpose  that  seemed  almost  apoplectic  in 
its  results. 

There  was  a  deep,  premonitory  stillness, 
broken  only  by  the  precentor,  who  covertly 
struck  his  tuning-fork  on  the  round  of  his 
chair,  and  held  it  to  his  ear  with  a  faint,  ac 
cordant  hum;  then  the  minister  arose  and 
spread  his  hands  in  solemn  invocation  above 
the  little  flock. 

"  Let  us  pray." 

Every  one  in  the  house  arose.  Even  old 
Mrs.  Groesbeck,  who  had  sciatica,  allowed 
her  husband  and  her  son  Ebenezer  to  assist 
her  to  her  feet,  and  the  children  who  were 
too  small  to  see  over  the  backs  of  the  pews 
slipped  from  their  seats  and  stood  in  down 
cast  stillness  within  the  high  board  inclosures. 

After  the  prayer,  Mr.  Morrison  read  the 
psalm.  It  was  Rouse's  version:  — 

" 1  joy'd  when  to  the  house  of  God, 
Go  up,  they  said  to  me. 
Jerusalem,  within  thy  gates 
Our  feet  shall  standing  be. 
77 


MARG'ET   ANN 

Jerus'lem  as  a  city  is 
Compactly  built  together. 
Unto  that  place  the  tribes  go  up, 
The  tribes  of  God  go  thither." 

The  minister  read  it  all  and  "  lined  out " 
the  first  couplet.  Then  the  precentor,  a  tall, 
thin  man,  whose  thinness  was  enveloped  but 
not  alleviated  by  an  alpaca  coat,  struck  his 
tuning-fork  more  openly  and  launched  into 
the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere  of  "  China," 
being  quite  alone  in  his  vocal  flight  until  the 
congregation  joined  him  in  the  more  acces 
sible  regions  of  the  second  line. 

Marg'et  Ann  shared  her  psalm-book  with 
Laban,  who  sat  beside  her.  He  had  hurt  his 
thumb  shelling  seed  corn,  and  his  mother 
had  made  him  a  clean  thumb-stall  for  Sab 
bath.  It  was  with  this  shrouded  member 
that  he  held  the  edge  of  the  psalm-book 
awkwardly.  Laban's  voice  was  in  that  un 
certain  stage  in  which  its  vagaries  astonished 
no  one  so  much  as  its  owner,  but  he  joined 
in  the  singing.  "Let  all  the  people  praise 
Thee  "  was  a  command  not  to  be  lightly  set 
aside  for  worldly  considerations  of  harmony 

78 


MARG'ET   ANN 

and  fitness,  and  so  Laban  sang,  his  callow 
and  ill-adjusted  soul  divided  between  fears 
that  the  people  would  hear  him  and  that  the 
Lord  would  not. 

Marg'et  Ann  listened  for  Lloyd  Archer's 
deep  bass  voice  in  the  Amen  corner. 

She  wished  his  feet  'were  standing  within 
the  gates  of  Jerusalem,  as  he  so  resonantly 
announced  that  they  would  be.  But  what 
ever  irreverence  there  might  be  in  poor 
Laban  refusing  to  sing  what  he  did  not 
dream  of  doubting,  there  was  no  impiety  to 
these  devout  souls  in  Lloyd  Archer's  join 
ing  with  them  in  the  vocal  proclamation  of 
things  concerning  which  he  had  very  serious 
doubts. 

Not  that  Jerusalem,  either  new  or  old,  was 
one  of  these  things;  the  young  man  himself 
was  not  conscious  of  any  heresy  there;  he 
believed  in  Jerusalem,  in  the  church  militant 
upon  earth  and  triumphant  in  heaven,  and  in 
many  deeper  and  more  devious  theological 
doctrines  as  well.  Indeed,  his  heterodoxy 
was  of  so  mild  a  type  that,  viewed  by  the  in 
candescent  light  of  to-day,  which  is  not  half 
79 


MARG'ET  ANN 

a  century  later,  it  shines  with  the  clear  blue 
radiance  of  flawless  Calvinism. 

If  the  tedious  "  lining  out,"  traditionally 
sacred,  was  quite  unreasonable  and  super 
fluous,  commemorating  nothing  but  the  days 
of  hunted  Covenanters  and  few  psalm-books 
and  fewer  still  who  were  able  to  read  them, 
perhaps  the  remembrance  of  these  things 
was  as  conducive  to  thankfulness  of  heart 
as  David's  recital  of  the  travails  and  triumphs 
of  ancient  Israel.  Certain  it  is  that  profound 
gratitude  to  God  and  devotion  to  duty  char 
acterized  the  lives  of  most  of  these  men  and 
women  who  sang  the  praises  of  their  Maker 
in  this  halting  and  unmusical  fashion. 

Marg'et  Ann  sang  in  a  high  and  somewhat 
nasal  treble,  compassing  the  extra  feet  of  Mr. 
Rouse's  doubtful  version  with  skill,  and  glid 
ing  nimbly  over  the  gaps  in  prosody  by  the 
aid  of  his  dextrously  elongated  syllables. 

Some  of  the  older  men  seemed  to  dwell 
upon  these  peculiarities  of  versification  as 
being  distinctively  ecclesiastical  and  there 
fore  spiritually  edifying,  and  brought  up  the 
musical  rear  of  such  couplets  with  long- 
So 


MARG'ET   ANN 

drawn  and  profoundly  impressive  "shy-un's" 
and  "  i-tee's ;  "  but  these  irregularities  found 
little  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  people, 
who  had  attended  singing-school  and  learned 
to  read  buckwheat  notes  under  the  direction 
of  Jonathan  Loomis,  the  precentor. 

Marg'et  Ann  listened  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
McClanahan's  elaborately  divided  discourse, 
wondering  what  piece  of  the  logical  puzzle 
Lloyd  would  declare  to  be  missing;  and 
she  glanced  rather  wistfully  once  or  twice 
toward  the  Amen  corner  where  the  young 
man  sat,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his 
eager  eyes  fixed  upon  the  minister's  face. 

When  the  intermission  came,  she  ate  her 
sweet  cake  and  her  triangle  of  dried  apple 
pie  with  the  others,  and  then  walked  toward 
the  graveyard  behind  the  church.  She  knew 
that  Lloyd  would  follow  her,  and  she  prayed 
for  grace  to  speak  a  work  in  season. 

The  young  man  stalked  through  the  tall 
grass  that  choked  the  path  of  the  little  inclos- 
ure  until  he  overtook  her  under  a  blossoming 
crab-apple  tree. 

He  had  been  "  going  with  "  Marg'et  Ann 
81 


MARG'ET   ANN 

more  than  a  year,  and  there  was  generally 
supposed  to  be  an  understanding  between 
them. 

She  turned  when  he  came  up,  and  put  out 
her  hand  without  embarrassment,  but  she 
blushed  as  pink  as  the  crab-apple  bloom  in 
his  grasp. 

They  talked  a  little  of  commonplace 
things,  and  Marg'et  Ann  looked  down  and 
swallowed  once  or  twice  before  she  said 
gravely,  — 

"  I  hoped  you  'd  come  forward  this  sacra 
ment,  Lloyd." 

The  young  man's  brow  clouded. 

"  I  've  told  you  I  can't  join  the  church  with 
out  telling  a  lie,  Marg'et  Ann.  You  would  n't 
want  me  to  tell  a  lie,"  he  said,  flushing  hotly. 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  down,  and 
twisting  her  handkerchief  into  a  ball  in  her 
hands. 

"  I  know  you  have  doubts  about  some 
things  5  but  I  thought  they  might  be  removed 
by  prayer.  Have  you  prayed  earnestly  to 
have  them  removed  ?  "  She  looked  up  at  him 
anxiously. 

82 


MARG'ET   ANN 

"  I  Ve  asked  to  be  made  to  see  things 
right,"  he  replied,  choking  a  little  over  this 
unveiling  of  his  holy  of  holies;  "  but  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  see  some  things  as  you  do." 

She  pondered  an  instant,  looking  absently 
at  the  headstone  of  "  Hephzibah,"  who  was 
the  later  of  Robert  McCoy's  two  beloved 
wives,  then  she  said,  with  an  effort,  for  these 
staid  descendants  of  Scottish  ancestry  were 
not  given  to  glib  talking  of  sacred  things : 

"  I  suppose  doubts  are  sent  to  try  our  faith; 
but  we  have  the  promise  that  they  will  be 
removed  if  we  ask  in  the  right  spirit.  Are 
you  sure  you  have  asked  in  the  right  spirit, 
Lloyd?" 

"  I  have  prayed  for  light,  but  I  have  n't 
asked  to  have  my  doubts  removed,  Marg'et 
Ann;  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  believe 
what  does  n't  appear  reasonable  to  me." 

The  girl  lifted  a  troubled,  tremulous  face 
to  his. 

"  That  is  n't  the  right  spirit,  Lloyd,  —  you 
know  it  is  n't.  How  can  God  remove  your 
doubts  if  you  don't  want  him  to  ?  " 

The  young  man  reached  up  and  broke  off 
83 


MARG'ET  ANN 

a  twig  of  the  round,  pink  crab-apple  buds 
and  rolled  the  stem  between  his  work-hard 
ened  hands. 

"  I  Ve  asked  for  light,"  he  repeated,  "  and 
if  when  it  comes  I  see  things  different,  I  '11 
say  so ;  but  I  can't  want  to  believe  what 
I  don't  believe,  and  I  can't  pray  for  what  I 
don't  want." 

The  triangle  of  Marg'et  Ann's  brow  be 
tween  her  burnished  satin  puffs  of  hair  took 
on  two  upright,  troubled  lines.  She  unfolded 
her  handkerchief  nervously,  and  her  token 
fell  with  a  ringing  sound  against  tired  Heph- 
zibah's  gravestone  and  rolled  down  above 
her  patiently  folded  hands. 

Lloyd  stooped  and  searched  for  it  in  the 
grass.  When  he  found  it  he  gave  it  to  her 
silently,  and  their  hands  met.  Poor  Marg'et 
Ann!  No  hunted  Covenanter  amid  Scottish 
heather  was  more  a  martyr  to  his  faith  than 
this  rose-cheeked  girl  amid  Iowa  cornfields. 
She  took  the  bit  of  flattened  lead  and  pressed 
it  between  her  burning  palms. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  get  hardened  in  unbe 
lief,  Lloyd,"  she  said  soberly. 

84 


MARG'ET  ANN 

The  congregation  was  drifting  toward  the 
church  again,  and  the  young  people  turned. 
Lloyd  touched  the  iridescent  silk  of  her  wide 
sleeve, 

"  You  ain't  a-going  to  let  this  make  any 
difference  between  you  and  me,  are  you, 
Marg'et  Ann  ?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  I  don't  know,"  wavered  the  girl.  "  I 
hope  you  '11  be  brought  to  a  sense  of  your 
true  condition,  Lloyd."  She  hesitated, 
smoothing  the  sheen  of  her  skirt.  "It  would 
be  an  awful  cross  to  father  and  mother." 

The  young  man  fell  behind  her  in  the 
narrow  path,  and  they  walked  to  the  church 
door  in  unhappy  silence. 

Inside,  the  elders  had  accomplished  the 
spreading  of  the  tables  with  slow-moving, 
awkward  reverence.  The  spotless  drapery 
swayed  a  little  in  the  afternoon  breeze,  and 
there  was  a  faint  fruity  smell  of  communion 
wine  in  the  room. 

The  two  ministers  and  some  of  the  older 
communicants  sat  with  bowed  heads,  in 
deep  spiritual  isolation. 

The  solemn  stillness  of  self-examination 
85 


MARG'ET  ANN 

pervaded  the  room,  and  Marg'et  Ann  went 
to  her  seat  with  a  vague  stirring  of  resent 
ment  in  her  heart  toward  the  Rev.  Samuel 
McClanahan,  who,  with  all  his  learning,  could 
not  convince  this  one  lost  sheep  of  the  error 
of  his  theological  way.  She  put  aside  such 
thoughts,  however,  before  the  serving  of  the 
tables,  and  walked  humbly  down  the  aisle 
behind  her  mother,  singing  the  one  hundred 
and  sixteenth  psalm  to  the  quaint  rising  and 
falling  cadences  of  "  Dundee." 

Once,  while  the  visiting  pastor  addressed 
the  communicants,  she  thought  how  it  would 
simplify  matters  if  Lloyd  were  sitting  oppo 
site  her,  and  then  caught  her  breath  as  the 
minister  adjured  each  one  to  examine  him 
self,  lest  eating  and  drinking  unworthily  he 
should  eat  and  drink  damnation  to  himself. 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  the  service 
ended,  and  as  the  Morrisons  drove  into  the 
lane  the  smell  of  jimson-weed  was  heavy  on 
the  evening  air,  and  they  could  hear  the  clank 
of  the  cow  bells  in  the  distance. 

Marg'et  Ann  went  to  her  room  to  lay  aside 
her  best  dress  and  get  ready  for  the  milking, 

86 


MARG'ET   ANN 

and  Mrs.  Morrison  and  Rebecca  made  haste 
to  see  about  supper. 

Miss  Nancy  McClanahan  walked  about 
the  garden  in  her  much  made-over  black 
silk,  and  compared  the  progress  of  Mrs. 
Morrison's  touch-me-nots  and  four-o'clocks 
with  her  own,  nipping  herself  a  sprig  of  tansy 
from  the  patch  under  the  Bowerly  apple-tree. 

She  shared  Marg'et  Ann's  room  that  night, 
and  after  she  had  taken  off  her  lace  head 
dress  and  put  a  frilled  nightcap  over  her  lone 
some  little  knot  of  gray  hair  and  said  her 
prayers,  she  composed  herself  on  her  pillow 
with  a  patient  sigh,  and  lay  watching  Marg'et 
Ann  crowd  her  burnished  braids  into  her 
close-fitting  cap  without  speaking;  but  after 
the  light  was  out,  and  her  companion  had 
lain  down  beside  her,  the  old  maid  placed 
her  knotted  hand  on  the  girl's  more  shapely 
one,  and  said:  — 

"There's  worse  things  than  living  single, 
Marg'et  Ann,  and  then  again  I  suppose 
there 's  better.  Of  course  every  girl  has  her 
chances,  and  the  people  we  make  sacrifices 
for  don't  always  seem  quite  as  grateful  as  we 

87 


MARG'ET   ANN 

calculated  they  'd  be.  I  'm  not  repinin',  but 
I  sometimes  think  if  I  had  my  life  to  live 
over  again  I  'd  do  different." 

Marg'et  Ann  pressed  the  knotted  fingers, 
that  felt  like  a  handful  of  hickory  nuts,  and 
touched  the  little  circle  with  its  two  worn- 
out  hearts,  but  she  said  nothing. 

She  had  heard  that  the  Rev.  Samuel  Mc- 
Clanahan  was  going  to  marry  the  youngest 
Groesbeck  girl,  now  that  his  children  were 
"  getting  well  up  out  of  the  way,"  and  she 
knew  that  her  mother  had  been  telling  Miss 
Nancy  something  about  her  own  love  affair 
with  Lloyd  Archer. 

Whatever  Mrs.  Morrison  may  have  con 
fided  to  Miss  Nancy  McClanahan  concerning 
Marg'et  Ann  and  her  lover  must  have  been 
entirely  suppositional  and  therefore  liable  to 
error;  for  the  confidence  between  parent 
and  child  did  not  extend  into  the  mysteries 
of  love  and  marriage,  nor  would  the  older 
woman  have  dreamed  of  intruding  upon  the 
sacred  precinct  of  her  daughter's  feelings 
toward  a  young  man.  She  had  remarked 
once  or  twice  to  her  husband  that  she  was 

88 


MARG'ET  ANN 

afraid  sometimes  that  there  was  something 
between  Lloyd  Archer  and  Marg'et  Ann; 
but  whether  this  something  was  a  barrier 
or  a  bond  she  left  the  worthy  minister  to 
divine. 

That  he  had  decided  upon  the  latter  was 
evidenced,  perhaps,  by  his  reply  that  he  hoped 
not,  and  his  fear,  which  he  had  expressed  be 
fore,  that  Lloyd  was  getting  more  and  more 
settled  in  habits  of  unbelief;  and  Mrs.  Mor 
rison  took  occasion  to  remark  the  next  day 
in  her  daughter's  hearing  that  she  would  hate 
to  have  a  child  of  hers  marry  an  unbeliever. 

Marg'et  Ann  did  not,  however,  need  any 
of  these  helps  to  an  understanding  of  her  par 
ents'  position.  She  knew  too  well  the  dan 
ger  that  was  supposed  to  threaten  him  who 
indulged  in  vain  and  unprofitable  question 
ings,  and  she  had  too  often  heard  the  vanity 
of  human  reason  proclaimed  to  feel  any  pride 
in  the  readiness  with  which  Lloyd  had  an 
swered  Squire  Wilson  in  the  argument  they 
had  on  foreordination  at  Hiram  Graham's 
infare.  Indeed,  she  had  felt  it  a  personal 
rebuke  when  her  father  had  said  on  the  way 

89 


MARG'ET   ANN 

home  that  he  hoped  no  child  of  his  would 
ever  set  up  his  feeble  intellect  against  the 
eternal  purposes  of  God,  as  Lloyd  Archer 
was  doing.  Marg'et  Ann  knew  perfectly 
well  that  if  she  married  Lloyd  in  his  present 
unregenerate  state  she  would,  in  the  esti 
mation  of  her  father  and  mother,  be  endan 
gering  the  safety  of  her  own  soul,  which, 
though  presumably  of  the  elect,  could  never 
be  conclusively  so  proved  until  the  gates  of 
Paradise  should  close  behind  it. 

She  pondered  on  these  things,  and  talked 
of  them  sometimes  with  Lloyd,  rather  un 
satisfactorily,  it  is  true;  for  that  rising  theo 
logian  bristled  with  questions  which  threw 
her  troubled  soul  into  a  tumult  of  fear  and 
uncertainty. 

It  was  this  latter  feeling,  perhaps,  which 
distressed  her  most  in  her  calmer  moments; 
for  it  was  gradually  forcing  itself  upon 
poor  Marg'et  Ann  that  she  must  either  snatch 
her  lover  as  a  brand  from  the  burning  or  be 
herself  drawn  into  the  flames. 

She  had  taken  the  summer  school  down 
on  Cedar  Creek,  and  Lloyd  used  to  ride 
90 


MARG'ET   ANN 

down  for  her  on  Friday  evenings  when  the 
creek  was  high. 

Rebecca  and  Archie  Skinner  were  to  be 
married  in  the  fall,  and  her  mother,  who  had 
been  ailing  a  little  all  summer,  would  need 
her  at  home  when  Rebecca  was  gone.  Still, 
this  would  not  have  stood  in  the  way  of  her 
marriage  had  everything  else  been  satisfac 
tory;  and  Lloyd  suspected  as  much  when 
she  urged  it  as  a  reason  for  delay. 

"  If  anybody  has  to  stay  at  home  on  your 
mother's  account,  why  not  let  Archie  Skin 
ner  and  Becky  put  off  their  wedding  a 
while  ?  They  're  younger,  and  they  have  n't 
been  going  together  near  as  long  as  we 
have,"  said  Lloyd,  in  answer  to  her  excuses. 

They  were  riding  home  on  horseback  one 
Friday  night,  and  Lloyd  had  just  told  her 
that  Martin  Prather  was  going  back  to  Ohio 
to  take  care  of  the  old  folks,  and  would  rent 
his  farm  very  reasonably. 

Marg'et  Ann  had  on  a  slat  sunbonnet 
which  made  her  profile  about  as  attractive  as 
an  "  elbow  "  of  stovepipe,  but  it  had  the  ad 
vantage  of  hiding  the  concern  that  Lloyd's 
91 


MARG'ET   ANN 

questioning  brought  into  her  face.    It  could 
not,  however,  keep  it  out  of  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,  Lloyd,"  she  began  hesitat 
ingly;  then  she  turned  toward  him  suddenly, 
and  let  him  see  all  the  pain  and  trouble  and 
regret  that  her  friendly  headgear  had  been 
sheltering.  "  Oh,  I  do  wish  you  could  come 
to  see  things  different!  "  she  broke  out  trem 
ulously. 

The  young  man  was  quiet  for  an  instant, 
and  then  said  huskily,  "  I  just  thought  you 
had  something  like  that  in  your  mind,  Mar- 
g'et  Ann.  If  you  've  concluded  to  wait  till  I 
join  the  church  we  might  as  well  give  it  up. 
I  don't  believe  in  close  communion,  and  I 
can't  see  any  harm  in  occasional  hearing, 
and  I  have  n't  heard  any  minister  yet  that 
can  reconcile  free  will  and  election;  the 
more  I  think  about  it  the  less  I  believe;  I 
think  there  is  about  as  much  hope  of  your 
changing  as  there  is  of  me.  I  don't  see  what 
all  this  fuss  is  about,  anyway.  Arch  Skinner 
is  n't  a  church  member!  " 

It  was  hard  for  Marg'et  Ann  to  say  why 
Archie  Skinner's  case  was  considered  more 

92 


MARG'ET   ANN 

hopeful  than  Lloyd's.  She  knew  perfectly 
well,  and  so  did  her  lover,  for  that  matter, 
but  it  was  not  easy  to  formulate. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid  you  '11  get  to  believing 
less  and  less  if  you  go  on  arguing,  Lloyd?" 
she  asked,  ignoring  Archie  Skinner  alto 
gether. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lloyd  somewhat 
sullenly. 

They  were  riding  up  the  lane  in  the  scant 
shadow  of  the  white  locust  trees.  The  corn 
was  in  tassel  now,  and  rustled  softly  in  the 
fields  on  either  side.  There  was  no  other 
sound  for  a  while.  Then  Marg'et  Ann 
spoke. 

"  I  '11  see  what  father  thinks  "  — 

"  No,  you  won't,  Marg'et  Ann,"  broke  in 
Lloyd  obstinately.  "  I  think  a  good  deal  of 
your  father,  but  I  don't  want  to  marry  him; 
and  I  don't  ask  you  to  promise  to  marry  the 
fellow  I  ought  to  be,  or  that  you  think  I 
ought  to  be;  I  've  asked  you  to  marry  me. 
I  don't  care  what  you  believe  and  I  don't  care 
what  your  father  thinks ;  I  want  to  know  what 
you  think." 

93 


MARG'ET  ANN 

Poor  Lloyd  made  all  this  energetic  avowal 
without  the  encouragement  of  a  blush  or  a 
smile,  or  the  discouragement  of  a  frown  or 
a  tear.  All  this  that  a  lover  watches  for  anx 
iously  was  hidden  by  a  wall  of  slats  and 
green-checked  gingham. 

She  turned  her  tubular  head  covering  to 
ward  him  presently,  however,  showing  him 
all  the  troubled  pink  prettiness  it  held,  and 
said  very  genuinely  through  her  tears,  — 

"  Oh,  Lloyd,  you  know  well  enough  what 
I  think!" 

They  had  reached  the  gate,  and  it  was  a 
very  much  mollified  face  which  the  young 
man  raised  to  hers  as  he  helped  her  to  dis 
mount. 

"  Your  father  and  mother  would  n't  stand 
in  the  way  of  our  getting  married,  would 
they?"  he  asked,  as  she  stood  beside  him. 

"  Oh,  no,  they  would  n't  stand  in  the  way," 
faltered  poor  Marg'et  Ann. 

How  could  she  explain  to  this  muscular 
fellow,  whose  pale-faced  mother  had  no  creed 
but  what  Lloyd  thought  or  wanted  or  liked, 
that  it  was  their  unspoken  grief  that  made  it 

94 


MARG'ET  ANN 

hard  for  her?  How  shall  any  woman  explain 
her  family  ties  to  any  man  ? 

Marg'et  Ann  did  not  need  to  consult  her 
father.  He  looked  up  from  his  writing  when 
she  entered  the  door. 

"  Was  that  Lloyd  Archer,  Marg'et  Ann  ?  " 
he  asked  kindly. 

"Yes,  sir."  " 

"  I  'd  a  little  rather  you  would  n't  go  with 
him.  He  seems  to  be  falling  into  a  state  of 
mind  that  is  likely  to  end  in  infidelity.  It 
troubles  your  mother  and  me  a  good  deal." 

Marg'et  Ann  went  into  the  bedroom  to 
take  off  her  riding  skirt,  and  she  did  not 
come  out  until  she  was  sure  no  one  could 
see  that  she  had  been  crying. 

Mrs.  Morrison  continued  to  complain  all 
through  the  fall;  at  least  so  her  neighbors 
said,  although  the  good  woman  had  never 
been  known  to  murmur;  and  Marg'et  Ann 
said  nothing  whatever  about  her  engagement 
to  Lloyd  Archer. 

Late  in  October  Archie  Skinner  and  Re 
becca  were  married  and  moved  to  the  Martin 
Prather  farm,  and  Lloyd,  restless  and  chaf- 
95 


MARG'ET  ANN 

ing  under  all  this  silence  and  delay,  had  no 
longer  anything  to  suggest  when  Marg'et 
Ann  urged  her  mother's  failing  health  as  a 
reason  for  postponing  their  marriage. 

Before  the  crab-apples  bloomed  again  Mrs. 
Morrison's  life  went  out  as  quietly  as  it  had 
been  lived.  There  was  a  short,  sharp  illness 
at  the  last,  and  in  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  pain 
the  sick  woman  lay  watching  her  daughter, 
who  was  alone  with  her. 

"  I  'm  real  glad  there  was  nothing  between 
you  and  Lloyd  Archer,  Marg'et  Ann,"  she 
said  feebly;  "that  would  have  troubled  me 
a  good  deal.  You  ?11  have  your  father  and  the 
children  to  look  after.  Nancy  Helen  will  be 
coming  up  pretty  soon,  and  be  some  help; 
she  grows  fast.  You'll  have  to  manage 
along  as  best  you  can." 

The  girl's  sorely  troubled  heart  failed  her. 
Her  eyes  burned  and  her  throat  ached  with 
the  effort  of  self-control.  She  buried  her  face 
in  the  patchwork  quilt  beside  her  mother's 
hand.  The  woman  stroked  her  hair  tenderly. 

"  Don't  cry,  Marg'et  Ann,"  she  said,  "  don't 
cry.  You  '11  get  on.  It 's  the  Lord's  will." 

96 


MARG'ET  ANN 

The  evening  after  the  funeral  Lloyd 
Archer  came  over,  and  Marg'et  Ann  walked 
up  the  lane  with  him.  She  was  glad  to  get 
away  from  the  Sabbath  hush  of  the  house, 
which  the  neighbors  had  made  so  patheti 
cally  neat,  —  taking  up  the  dead  woman's 
task  where  she  had  left  it,  and  doing  every 
thing  with  scrupulous  care,  as  if  they  feared 
some  vision  of  neglected  duty  might  disturb 
her  rest. 

The  frost  was  out  of  the  ground  and  the 
spring  plowing  had  begun.  There  was  a 
smell  of  fresh  earth  from  the  furrows,  and 
a  red-bud  tree  in  the  thicket  was  faintly 
pink. 

Lloyd  was  silent  and  troubled,  and 
Marg'et  Ann  could  not  trust  her  voice. 
They  walked  on  without  speaking,  and  the 
dusk  was  deepening  before  they  turned  to 
go  back.  Marg'et  Ann  had  thrown  a  little 
homespun  shawl  over  her  head,  for  there 
was  a  memory  of  frost  in  the  air,  but  it  had 
fallen  back  and  Lloyd  could  see  her  profile 
with  its  new  lines  of  grief  in  the  dim  light. 

"It  don't  seem  right,  Marg'et  Ann,"  he 
97 


MARG'ET  ANN 

began  in  a  voice  strained  almost  to  coldness 
by  intensity  of  feeling. 

"  But  it  is  right,  —  we  know  that,  Lloyd/' 
interrupted  the  girl;  then  she  turned  and 
threw  both  arms  about  his  neck  and  buried 
her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "  Oh,  Lloyd,  I 
can't  bear  it  —  I  can't  bear  it  alone  —  you 
must  help  me  to  be  —  to  be  —  reconciled !  " 

The  young  man  laid  his  cheek  upon  her 
soft  hair.  There  was  nothing  but  hot,  un 
spoken  rebellion  in  his  heart.  They  stood 
still  an  instant,  and  then  Marg'et  Ann  raised 
her  head  and  drew  the  little  shawl  up  and 
caught  it  under  her  quivering  chin. 

"  We  must  go  in,"  she  said  staidly,  chok 
ing  back  her  sobs. 

Lloyd  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and 
drew  her  toward  him  again. 

"  Is  there  no  help,  Marg'et  Ann  ?  "  he  said 
piteously,  looking  into  her  tear-stained  face. 
In  his  heart  he  knew  there  was  none.  He 
had  gone  over  the  ground  a  thousand  times 
since  he  had  seen  her  standing  beside  her 
mother's  open  grave  with  the  group  of 
frightened  children  clinging  to  her. 

98 


MARG'ET  ANN 

4 '  God  is  our  refuge  and  our  strength, 

In  straits  a  present  aid  ; 
Therefore,  although  the  earth  remove 
We  will  not  be  afraid," 

repeated  the  girl,  her  sweet  voice  breaking 
into  a  whispered  sob  at  the  end.  They 
walked  to  the  step  and  stood  there  for  a  mo 
ment  in  silence. 

The  minister  opened  the  door. 

"  Is  that  you,  Marg'et  Ann,"  he  asked. 
"  I  think  we  'd  better  have  worship  now;  the 
children  are  getting  sleepy." 

Almost  a  year  before  patient,  tireless 
Esther  Morrison's  eternal  holiday  had  come, 
a  man,  walking  leisurely  along  an  empty 
mill-race,  had  picked  up  a  few  shining  yel 
low  particles,  holding  in  his  hand  for  an 
instant  the  destiny  of  half  the  world.  Every 
restless  soul  that  could  break  its  moorings 
was  swept  westward  on  the  wave  of  excite 
ment  that  followed.  Blue  Mound  felt  the 
magnetism  of  those  bits  of  yellow  metal  along 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  wild  stories 
were  told  at  singing-school  and  in  harvest 
99 


MARG'ET   ANN 

fields  of  the  fortunes  that  awaited  those  who 
crossed  the  plains. 

Lloyd  Archer,  eager,  restless,  and  discon 
tented,  caught  the  fever  among  the  first. 
Marg'et  Ann  listened  to  his  plans,  heartsore 
and  helpless.  She  had  ceased  to  advise  him. 
There  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  on  her 
part  that  she  had  forfeited  her  right  to  influ 
ence  his  life  in  any  way.  As  for  him,  uncon 
sciously  jealous  of  the  devotion  to  duty  that 
made  her  precious  to  him  and  unable  to 
solve  the  problem  himself,  he  yet  felt  in 
jured  that  she  could  not  be  true  to  him  and 
to  his  ideal  of  her  as  well.  If  she  had  left  the 
plain  path  and  gone  with  him  into  the  by 
ways,  his  heart  would  have  remained  forever 
with  the  woman  he  had  loved,  and  not  with 
the  woman  who  had  so  loved  him;  and  yet 
he  sometimes  urged  her  to  do  this  thing,  so 
strange  a  riddle  is  the  "  way  of  a  man  with 
a  maid." 

Lloyd  had  indulged  a  hope  which  he  could 

not   mention    to   any    one,    least   of    all   to 

Marg'et  Ann,  that  the  minister  would  marry 

again  in  due  season.    But  nothing  pointed  to 

100 


MARG'ET  ANN 

a  fulfillment  of  this  wish.  The  good  man 
seemed  far  more  interested  in  the  abolition 
of  slavery  in  the  South  than  in  the  release 
of  his  daughter  from  bondage  to  her  own 
flesh  and  blood,  Lloyd  said  to  himself,  -with 
the  bitterness  of  youth.  Indeed;  the  house 
hold  had  moved  on  with  so  little  •"oh&ngfe  m 
the  comfort  of  its  worthy  head  that  a  know 
ledge  of  Lloyd's  wishes  would  have  been 
quite  as  startling  to  the  object  of  them  as  the 
young  man's  reasons  for  their  indulgence. 

The  gold  fever  had  seemed  to  the  minister 
a  moral  disorder,  calling  for  spiritual  reme 
dies,  which  he  had  not  failed  to  administer 
in  such  quantity  and  of  such  strength  as  cor 
responded  with  the  religious  therapeutics  of 
the  day. 

Marg'et  Ann  hinted  of  this  when  her  lover 
came  to  her  with  his  plans. 

She  was  making  soap,  and  although  they 
stood  on  the  windward  side  of  the  kettle, 
her  eyes  were  red  from  the  smoke  of  the 
hickory  logs. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  just  right,  Lloyd?" 
she  asked,  stirring  the  unsavory  concoction 

IOI 


MARG'ET  ANN 

slowly  with  a  wooden  paddle.  "  Is  n't  it  just 
a  greed  for  gold,  like  gambling  ?  " 

Lloyd  put  both  elbows  on  the  top  of  the 
ash  hopper  and  looked  at  her  laughingly. 
H;e.had  on  a  straw  hat  lined  with  green  cal 
ico,  arid  "his  trousers  were  of  blue  jeans,  held 
iip-by  "galluses"  of  the  same;  but  he  was 
a  handsome  fellow,  with  sound  white  teeth 
and  thick  curling  locks. 

"  I  don't  know  as  a  greed  for  gold  is  any 
worse  than  a  greed  for  corn,"  he  said,  trying 
to  curb  his  voice  into  seriousness. 

"  But  corn  is  useful  —  it  is  food  —  and, 
besides,  you  work  for  it."  Marg'et  Ann 
pushed  her  sunbonnet  back  and  looked  at 
him  anxiously. 

"Well,  I  've  planted  a  good  deal  more  corn 
than  I  expect  to  eat  this  year,  and  I  was 
calculating  to  sell  some  of  it  for  gold, — you 
would  n't  think  that  was  wrong,  would  you, 
Marg'et  Ann  ?  " 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  some  one  will 
eat  it,  —  it 's  useful,"  maintained  the  girl 
earnestly. 

"  I  have  n't  found  anything  more  useful 


IO2 


MARG'ET   ANN 

than  money  yet,"  persisted  the  young  man 
good-naturedly;  "but  if  I  come  home  from 
California  with  two  or  three  bags  full  of  gold, 
I  '11  buy  up  a  township  and  raise  corn  by  the 
wholesale,  —  that  '11  make  it  all  right,  won't 
it?" 

Marg'et  Ann  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"You're  such  a  case,  Lloyd,"  she  said, 
not  without  a  note  of  admiration  in  her  re 
proof. 

When  it  came  to  the  parting  there  was 
little  said.  Marg'et  Ann  hushed  her  lover's 
assurances  with  her  own,  given  amid  blind 
ing  tears. 

"  I  '11  be  just  the  same,  Lloyd,  no  matter 
what  happens,  but  I  can't  let  you  make  any 
promises ;  it  would  n't  be  right.  I  can't  ex 
pect  you  to  wait  for  me.  You  must  do  what 
ever  seems  right  to  you;  but  there  won't  be 
any  harm  in  my  loving  you,  —  at  least  as  long 
as  you  don't  care  for  anybody  else." 

The  young  man  said  what  a  young  man 

usually  says  when  he  is  looking  into  trustful 

brown  eyes,  filled  with  tears  he  has  caused 

and  cannot  prevent,  and  at  the  moment,  in 

103 


MARG'ET  ANN 

the  sharp  pain  of  parting,  the  words  of  one 
were  not  more  or  less  sincere  than  those  of 
the  other. 

The  years  that  followed  moved  slowly, 
weighted  as  they  were  with  hard  work  and 
monotony  for  Marg'et  Ann,  and  by  the  time 
the  voice  of  the  corn  had  changed  three  times 
from  the  soft  whispering  of  spring  to  the 
hoarse  rustling  of  autumn,  she  felt  herself  old 
and  tired. 

There  had  been  letters  and  messages  and 
rumors,  more  or  less  reliable,  repeated  at 
huskings  and  quiltings,  to  keep  her  informed 
of  the  fortunes  of  those  who  had  crossed  the 
plains,  but  her  own  letters  from  Lloyd  had 
been  few  and  unsatisfactory.  She  could  not 
complain  of  this  strict  compliance  with  her 
wishes,  but  she  had  not  counted  upon  the 
absence  of  her  lover's  mother,  who  had  gone 
to  Ohio  shortly  after  his  departure  and  de 
cided  to  remain  there  with  a  married  daugh 
ter.  There  was  no  one  left  in  the  neighbor 
hood  who  could  expect  to  hear  directly  from 
Lloyd,  and  the  reports  that  came  from  other 
104 


MARG'ET  ANN 

members  of  the  party  he  had  joined  told  lit 
tle  that  poor  Marg'et  Ann  wished  to  know, 
beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  well  and  had 
suffered  the  varying  fortunes  of  other  gold- 
hunters. 

There  were  moments  of  bitterness  in  which 
she  tried  to  picture  to  herself  what  her  life 
might  have  been  if  she  had  braved  her  par 
ents'  disapproval  and  married  Lloyd  before 
her  mother's  death;  but  there  was  never  a 
moment  bitter  enough  to  tempt  her  into  any 
neglect  of  present  duty.  The  milking,  the 
butter-making,  the  washing,  the  spinning,  all 
the  relentless  hard  work  of  the  women  of 
her  day,  went  on  systematically  from  the 
beginning  of  the  year  to  its  end,  and  the 
younger  children  came  to  accept  her  patient 
ministrations  as  unquestioningly  as  they  had 
accepted  their  mother's. 

She  wondered  sometimes  at  her  own  anx 
iety  to  know  that  Lloyd  was  true  to  her,  re 
proaching  herself  meanwhile  with  puritanic 
severity  for  such  unholy  selfishness;  but 
she  discussed  the  various  plaids  for  the  chil 
dren's  flannel  dresses  with  Mrs.  Skinner, 
I05 


MARG'ET  ANN 

who  did  the  weaving,  and  cut  and  sewed  and 
dyed  the  rags  for  a  new  best  room  carpet 
with  the  same  conscientious  regard  for  art 
in  the  distribution  of  the  stripes  which  was 
displayed  by  all  the  women  of  her  acquaint 
ance  ;  indeed,  there  was  no  one  among 
them  all  whose  taste  in  striping  a  carpet,  or 
in  "piecing  and  laying  out  a  quilt,"  was 
more  sought  after  than  Marg'et  Ann's. 

"  She  always  was  the  old-fashionedest 
little  thing,"  said  grandmother  Elliott,  who 
had  been  a  member  of  Mr.  Morrison's  con 
gregation  back  in  Ohio.  "  I  never  did  see 
her  beat."  The  good  old  lady's  remark, 
which  was  considered  highly  commenda 
tory,  and  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  frivolities  of  changing  custom,  was  made 
at  a  quilting  at  Squire  Wilson's,  from  which 
Marg'et  Ann  chanced  to  be  absent. 

"  It 's  a  pity  she  don't  seem  to  get  mar 
ried,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  who  was  marking 
circles  in  the  white  patches  of  the  quilt  by 
means  of  an  inverted  teacup  of  flowing 
blue;  "  she  's  the  kind  of  a  girl  Pd  'a'  thought 
young  men  would  'a'  took  up  with." 

106 


MARG'ET  ANN 

"Marg'et  Ann  never  was  much  for  the 
boys,"  said  grandmother  Elliott,  disposed  to 
defend  her  favorite,  "  and  dear  knows  she 
has  her  hands  full;  it  ?s  quite  a  chore  to  look 
after  all  them  children." 

The  women  maintained  a  charitable  si 
lence.  The  ethics  of  their  day  did  not  re 
cognize  any  womanly  duty  inconsistent  with 
matrimony.  "  A  disappointment "  was  con 
sidered  the  only  dignified  reason  for  remain 
ing  single.  Grandmother  Elliott  felt  the 
weakness  of  her  position. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  how  her  father 
would  get  on,"  she  protested  feebly;  "he 
ain't  much  of  a  hand  to  manage." 

"  If  Marg'et  Ann  was  to  marry,  her  father 
would  have  to  stir  round  and  get  himself  a 
wife,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  with  cheerful  lack 
of  sentiment,  confident  that  her  audience  was 
with  her. 

"  I  Ve  always  had  a  notion  Marg'et  Ann 
thought  a  good  deal  more  of  Lloyd  Archer 
than  she  let  on,  —  at  least  more  than  her 
folks  knew  anything  about,"  asserted  Mrs. 
Skinner,  stretching  her  plump  arm  under  the 
107 


MARG'ET  ANN 

quilt  and  feeling  about  carefully.  "  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  she  'd  had  quite  a  disappointment." 

"  I  would  have  hated  to  see  her  marry 
Lloyd  Archer,"  protested  grandmother  El 
liott;  "  she  's  a  sight  too  good  for  him;  he  's 
always  had  queer  notions." 

"Well,  I  should  'a'  thought  myself  she 
could  'a'  done  better,"  admitted  Mrs.  Barnes, 
"but  somehow  she  has  n't.  I  tell  'Lisha  it 's 
more  of  a  disgrace  to  the  young  man  than 
it  is  to  her." 

Evidently  this  discussion  of  poor  Marg'et 
Ann's  dismal  outlook  matrimonially  was  not 
without  precedent. 

One  person  was  totally  oblivious  to  the 
facts  and  all  surmises  concerning  them.  The 
oretically,  no  doubt,  the  good  minister  es 
teemed  it  a  reproach  that  any  woman  should 
remain  unmarried;  but  there  are  theories 
which  refinement  finds  it  easy  to  separate 
from  daily  life,  and  no  thought  of  Marg'et 
Ann's  future  intruded  upon  her  father's  deep 
and  daily  increasing  distress  over  the  wrongs 
of  human  slavery.  Marg'et  Ann  was  con 
scious  sometimes  of  a  change  in  him;  he 
1 08 


MARG'ET  ANN 

went  often  and  restlessly  to  see  Squire  Kirk- 
endall,  who  kept  an  underground  railroad 
station,  and  not  infrequently  a  runaway  negro 
was  harbored  at  the  Morrisons'.  Strange  to 
say,  these  frightened  and  stealthy  visitors, 
dirty  and  repulsive  though  they  were,  ex 
cited  no  fear  in  the  minds  of  the  children, 
to  whom  the  slave  had  become  almost  an 
object  of  reverence. 

Marg'et  Ann  read  her  first  novel  that 
year, —  a  story  called  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
which  appeared  in  the  "  National  Era,"  — 
read  it  and  wept  over  it,  adding  all  the  inten 
sity  of  her  antislavery  training  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  hitherto  forbidden  pleasure.  She 
did  not  fail  to  note  her  father's  eagerness 
for  the  arrival  of  the  paper;  and  recalled  the 
fact  that  he  had  once  objected  to  her  reading 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  on  the  Sabbath. 

"  It 's  useful,  perhaps,"  he  had  said,  "  use 
ful  in  its  way  and  in  its  place,  but  it  is  fiction 
nevertheless." 

There  were  many  vexing  questions  of 
church  discipline  that  winter,  and  the  Rev. 
Samuel  McClanahan  rode  over  from  Cedar 
109 


MARG'ET   ANN 

Township  often  and  held  long  theological 
discussions  with  her  father  in  the  privacy  of 
the  best  room.  Once  Squire  Wilson  came 
with  him,  and  as  the  two  visitors  left  the 
house  Marg'et  Ann  heard  the  Rev.  Samuel 
urging  upon  the  elder  the  necessity  of  "hold 
ing  up  Brother  Morrison's  hands." 

It  was  generally  known  among  the  congre 
gation  that  Abner  Kirkendall  had  been  be 
fore  the  session  for  attending  the  Methodist 
Church  and  singing  an  uninspired  hymn  in 
the  public  worship  of  God,  and  it  was  whis 
pered  that  the  minister  was  not  properly  im 
pressed  with  the  heinousness  of  Abner's  sin. 
Then,  too,  Jonathan  Loomis,  the  precentor, 
who  had  at  first  insisted  upon  lining  out  two 
lines  of  the  psalm  instead  of  one,  and  had 
carried  his  point,  now  pushed  his  dangerous 
liberality  to  the  extreme  of  not  lining  out  at 
all.  The  first  time  he  was  guilty  of  this  start 
ling  innovation,  "  Rushin'  through  the  sawm," 
as  Uncle  John  Turnbull  afterwards  said, 
"  without  deegnity,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  hu 
man  cawmposeetion,"  two  or  three  of  the 
older  members  arose  and  left  the  church; 
no 


MARG'ET  ANN 

and  the  presbytery  was  shaken  to  its  founda 
tions  of  Scotch  granite  when  Mr.  Morrison 
humbly  acknowledged  that  he  had  not  no 
ticed  the  precentor's  bold  sally  until  Brother 
Turnbull's  departure  attracted  his  attention. 
It  is  true  that  the  minister  had  preached 
most  acceptably  that  day  from  the  ninth  and 
twelfth  verses  of  the  thirty-fifth  chapter  of 
Job :  "  By  reason  of  the  multitude  of  oppres 
sions  they  make  the  oppressed  to  cry:  they 
cry  out  by  reason  of  the  arm  of  the  mighty. 
.  .  .  There  they  cry,  but  none  giveth  answer, 
because  of  the  pride  of  evil  men."  And  it  is 
possible  that  the  zeal  for  freedom  that  burned 
in  his  soul  was  rather  gratified  than  otherwise 
by  Jonathan's  bold  singing  of  the  prophetic 
psalm:  — 

"  He  out  of  darkness  did  them  bring 

And  from  Death's  shade  them  take, 
Those  bands  wherewith  they  had  been  bound 
Asunder  quite  he  brake. 

u  O  that  men  to  the  Lord  would  give 

Praise  for  His  goodness  then, 
And  for  His  works  of  wonder  done 
Unto  the  sons  of  men." 
in 


MARG'ET  ANN 

But  such  absorbing  enthusiasm,  even  in  a 
good  cause,  argued  a  doctrinal  laxity  which 
could  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"  A  deegnifyin'  of  the  creature  above  the 
Creator,  the  sign  above  the  thing  seegnified," 
Uncle  Johnnie  Turnbull  urged  upon  the  ses 
sion,  smarting  from  the  deep  theological 
wound  he  had  suffered  at  Jonathan's  hands. 

A  perceptible  chill  crept  into  the  ecclesi 
astical  atmosphere  which  Marg'et  Ann  felt 
without  thoroughly  comprehending. 

Nancy  Helen  was  sixteen  now,  and 
Marg'et  Ann  had  taught  the  summer  school 
at  Yankee  Neck,  riding  home  every  evening 
to  superintend  the  younger  sister's  house 
keeping. 

Laban  had  emerged  from  the  period  of 
unshaven  awkwardness,  and  was  going  to 
see  Emeline  Barnes  with  ominous  regularity. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  affairs  of  the 
household  to  trouble  Marg'et  Ann  but  her 
father's  ever  increasing  restlessness  and  pre 
occupation.  She  wondered  if  it  would  have 
been  different  if  her  mother  had  lived.  There 
was  no  great  intimacy  between  the  father  and 


112 


MARG'ET  ANN 

daughter,  but  the  girl  knew  that  the  wrongs 
of  the  black  man  had  risen  like  a  dense  cloud 
between  her  father  and  what  had  once  been 
his  highest  duty  and  pleasure. 

She  was  not,  therefore,  greatly  surprised 
when  he  said  to  her  one  day,  more  humbly 
than  he  was  wont  to  speak  to  his  children:  — 

"  I  think  I  must  try  to  do  something  for 
those  poor  people,  child;  it  may  not  be 
much,  but  it  will  be  something.  The  harvest 
truly  is  great,  but  the  laborers  are  few." 

"  What  will  you  do,  father  ?  " 

Marg'et  Ann  asked  the  question  hesitat 
ingly,  dreading  the  reply.  The  minister 
looked  at  her  with  anxious  eagerness.  He 
was  glad  of  the  humble  acquiescence  that 
obliged  him  to  put  his  half-formed  resolu 
tion  into  words. 

"  If  the  presbytery  will  release  me  from 
my  charge  here,  I  may  go  South  for  a  while. 
Nancy  Helen  is  quite  a  girl  now,  and  with 
Laban  and  your  teaching  you  could  get  on. 
They  are  bruised  for  our  iniquities,  Marg'et 
Ann,  —  they  are  our  iniquities,  indirectly, 
child." 

113 


MARG'ET  ANN 

He  got  up  and  walked  across  the  rag-car 
peted  floor.  Marg'et  Ann  sat  still  in  her 
mother's  chair,. looking  down  at  the  stripes 
of  the  carpet,  —  dark  blue  and  red  and  "  hit 
or  miss,  "  her  mother  had  made  them  so  pa 
tiently;  it  seemed  as  if  patience  were  always 
under  foot  for  heroism  to  tread  upon.  She 
fought  with  the  ache  in  her  throat  a  little. 
The  stripes  on  the  floor  were  beginning  to 
blur  when  she  spoke. 

"  Is  n't  it  dangerous  to  go  down  there, 
father,  for  people  like  us,  —  for  Abolition 
ists,  I  mean;  I  have  heard  that  it  was." 

"  Dangerous !  "  The  preacher's  face  lighted 
with  the  faint,  prophetic  joy  of  martyrdom; 
poor  Marg'et  Ann  had  touched  the  wrong 
chord.  "  It  cannot  be  worse  for  me  than  it 
is  for  them,  —  I  must  go,"  he  broke  out  im 
patiently;  "  do  not  say  anything  against  it, 
child!"  ' 

And  so  Marg'et  Ann  said  nothing. 

Really  there  was  not  much  time  for  words. 

There  were  many  stitches  to  be  taken  in 

the  threadbare  wardrobe,  concerning  which 

her  father  was  as  ignorant  and  indifferent  as 

114 


MARG'ET  ANN 

a  child,  before  she  packed  it  all  in  the  old  car 
pet  sack  and  nerved  herself  to  see  him  start. 

He  went  away  willingly,  almost  cheer 
fully.  Just  at  the  last,  when  he  came  to  bid 
the  younger  children  good-by,  the  father 
seemed  for  an  instant  to  rise  above  the  re 
former.  No  doubt  their  childish  unconcern 
moved  him. 

"  We  must  think  of  the  families  that  have 
been  rudely  torn  apart.  Surely  it  ought  to 
sustain  us,  —  it  ought  to  sustain  us,"  he  said 
to  Laban  as  they  drove  away. 

Two  days  later  they  carried  him  home, 
crippled  for  life  by  the  overturning  of  the 
stage  near  Cedar  Creek. 

He  made  no  complaint  of  the  drunken 
driver  whose  carelessness  had  caused  the 
accident  and  frustrated  his  plans;  but  once, 
when  his  eldest  daughter  was  alone  with 
him,  he  looked  into  her  face  and  said,  ab 
sently,  rather  than  to  her,  — 

"Patience,  patience;  I  doubt  not  the 
Lord's  hand  is  in  it." 

And  Marg'et  Ann  felt  that  his  purpose 
was  not  quenched. 


MARG'ET  ANN 

In  the  spring  Lloyd  Archer  came  home. 
Marg'et  Ann  had  heard  of  his  coming,  and 
tried  to  think  of  him  with  all  the  intervening 
years  of  care  and  trial  added;  but  when  she 
saw  him  walking  up  the  path  between  the 
flowering  almonds  and  snowball  bushes,  all 
the  intervening  years  faded  away,  and  left 
only  the  past  that  he  had  shared,  and  the 
present. 

She  met  him  there  at  her  father's  bedside 
and  shook  hands  with  him  and  said,  "  How 
do  you  do,  Lloyd?  Have  you  kept  your 
health  ?  "  as  quietly  as  she  would  have  greeted 
any  neighbor.  After  he  had  spoken  to  her 
father  and  the  children  she  sat  before  him 
with  her  knitting,  a  very  gentle,  self-con 
tained  Desdemona,  and  listened  while  he 
told  the  minister  stories  of  California,  men 
tioning  the  trees  and  fruits  of  the  Bible  with 
a  freedom  and  familiarity  that  savored  just 
enough  of  heresy  to  make  him  seem  entirely 
unchanged. 

When  Nancy  Helen  came  into  the  room 
he  glanced  from  her  to  Marg'et  Ann;  the 
two  sisters  had  the  same  tints  in  hair  and 
116 


MARG'ET  ANN 

cheek,  but  the  straight,  placid  lines  of  the 
elder  broke  into  waves  and  dimples  in  the 
younger.  Nancy  Helen  shook  hands  in  a 
limp,  half-grown  way,  blushingly  conscious 
that  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  and  that  her 
elders  were  maturely  indifferent  to  her  suf 
ferings;  and  Lloyd  jokingly  refused  to  tell 
her  his  name,  insisting  that  she  had  kissed 
him  good-by  and  promised  to  be  his  little 
sweetheart  when  he  came  back. 

Marg'et  Ann  was  knitting  a  great  blue  and 
white  sock  for  Laban,  and  after  she  had 
turned  the  mammoth  heel  she  smoothed  it 
out  on  her  lap,  painstakingly,  conscious  all 
the  time  of  a  tumultuous,  unreasonable  joy 
in  Lloyd's  presence,  in  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  in  his  glance,  which  assured  her  so 
unmistakably  that  she  had  a  right  to  rejoice 
in  his  coming. 

She  did  not  see  her  lover  alone  for  several 
days.  When  she  did,  he  caught  her  hands 
and  said,  "  Well,  Marg'et  Ann  ?  "  taking  up 
the  unsettled  question  of  their  lives  where 
they  had  left  it.  And  Marg'et  Ann  stood 
still,  with  her  hands  in  his,  looking  down  at 
117 


MARG'ET   ANN 

the  snow  of  the  fallen  locust-bloom  at  her 
feet,  and  said,  — 

"When  father  is  well  enough  to  begin 
preaching  again,  then  I  think  —  perhaps  — 
Lloyd"  — 

But  Lloyd  did  not  wait  to  hear  what  she 
thought,  nor  trouble  himself  greatly  about 
the  "perhaps." 

The  minister's  injuries  were  slow  to 
mend.  They  were  all  coming  to  understand 
that  his  lameness  would  be  permanent,  and 
there  was  on  the  part  of  the  older  children 
a  tense,  pained  curiosity  concerning  their 
father's  feeling  on  the  subject,  which  no  word 
of  his  had  thus  far  served  to  relieve.  There 
was  a  grave  shyness  among  them  concern 
ing  their  deepest  feelings,  which  was,  per 
haps,  a  sense  of  the  inadequacy  of  expression 
rather  than  the  austerity  it  seemed.  Marg'et 
Ann  would  have  liked  to  show  her  sympathy 
for  ker  father,  and  no  doubt  it  would  have 
lightened  the  burdens  of  both;  but  any  be 
trayal  of  filial  tenderness  beyond  the  dutiful 
care  she  gave  him  would  have  startled  the 
n8 


MARG'ET  ANN 

minister,  and  embarrassed  them  both.  Life 
was  a  serious  thing  to  them  only  by  reason 
of  its  relation  to  eternity  5  a  constant  under 
rating  of  this  world  had  made  them  doubtful 
of  its  dignity.  Marg'et  Ann  felt  it  rather 
light-minded  that  she  should  have  a  lump  in 
her  throat  whenever  she  thought  of  her 
father  on  crutches  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
She  wondered  how  Laban  felt  about  it,  but 
it  was  not  likely  that  she  would  ever  know. 
Laban  had  made  the  crutches  himself,  a 
rude,  temporary  pair  at  first,  but  he  was  at 
work  on  others  now  that  were  more  carefully 
made  and  more  durable  5  and  she  knew 
from  this  and  the  remarks  of  her  father  when 
he  tried  them  that  they  both  understood. 
It  was  not  worth  while  to  talk  about  it  of 
course,  and  yet  the  household  had  a  dull 
ache  in  it  that  a  little  talking  might  have 
relieved. 

Marg'et  Ann  had  begged  Lloyd  not  to 
speak  to  her  father  until  the  latter  was  "  up 
and  about."  It  seemed  to  her  unkind  to  talk 
of  leaving  him  when  he  was  helpless,  and 
Lloyd  was.  very  patient  now,  and  very  tract- 
119 


MARG'ET  ANN 

able,  working  busily  to  get  the  old  place  in 
readiness  for  his  bride. 

Mr.  Morrison  sat  at  his  table,  reading,  or 
writing  hurriedly,  or  gazing  absently  out  into 
the  June  sunshine.  He  was  sitting  thus  one 
afternoon,  tapping  the  arms  of  his  chair  ner 
vously  with  his  thin  fingers,  when  Marg'et 
Ann  brought  her  work  and  sat  in  her  mo 
ther's  chair  near  him.  It  was  not  very  dainty 
work,  winding  a  mass  of  dyed  carpet  rags 
into  a  huge,  madder-colored  ball,  but  there 
were  delicate  points  in  its  execution  which 
a  restless  civilization  has  hurried  into  ob 
livion  along  with  the  other  lost  arts,  and 
Marg'et  Ann  surveyed  her  ball  critically  now 
and  then,  to  be  sure  that  it  was  not  develop 
ing  any  slovenly  one-sidedness  under  her 
deft  hands.  The  minister's  crutches  leaned 
against  the  arm  of  his  painted  wooden  chair 
with  an  air  of  mute  but  patient  helpfulness. 
Marg'et  Ann  had  cushioned  them  with  patch 
work,  but  he  had  walked  about  so  much  that 
she  already  noted  the  worn  places  beginning 
to  show  under  the  arms  of  his  faded  dressing- 
gown.  He  leaned  forward  a  little  and  glanced 

I2O 


MARG'ET   ANN 

toward  her,  his  hand  on  them  now,  and  she 
put  down  her  work  and  went  to  his  side.  He 
raised  himself  by  the  arms  of  his  chair,  sigh 
ing,  and  took  the  crutches  from  her  patient 
hand. 

"  I  am  not  of  much  account,  child,  —  not 
of  much  account,"  he  said  wearily. 

Marg'et  Ann  colored  with  pain.  She  felt 
as  a  branch  might  feel  when  the  trunk  of 
the  tree  snaps. 

"  I  'm  sure  you  're  getting  on  very  well, 
father ;  the  doctor  says  you  '11  be  able  to 
begin  preaching  again  by  fall." 

The  minister  made  his  way  slowly  across 
the  room  and  stood  a  moment  in  the  open 
door;  then  he  retraced  his  halting  steps  with 
their  thumping  wooden  accompaniment  and 
seated  himself  slowly  and  painfully  again. 
One  of  the  crutches  slid  along  the  arm  of  the 
chair  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Marg'et  Ann 
went  to  pick  it  up.  His  head  was  still  bowed 
and  his  face  had  not  relaxed  from  the  pain 
of  moving.  Standing  a  moment  at  his  side 
and  looking  down  at  him,  she  noticed  how 
thin  and  gray  his  hair  had  become.  She 

121 


MARG'ET  ANN 

turned  away  her  face,  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  and  battling  with  the  cruelty  of  it  all. 
The  minister  felt  the  tenderness  of  her  silent 
presence  there,  and  glanced  up. 

"  I  shall  not  preach  any  more,  Marg'et 
Ann,  at  least  not  here,  not  in  this  way.  If 
I  might  do  something  for  those  down-trod 
den  people,  —  but  that  is  perhaps  not  best. 
The  Lord  knows.  But  I  shall  leave  the  minis 
try  for  a  time,  —  until  I  see  my  way  more 
clearly." 

His  daughter  crossed  the  room,  stooping 
to  straighten  the  braided  rug  at  his  feet  as 
she  went,  and  took  up  her  work  again.  Cer 
tainly  the  crimson  ball  was  a  trifle  one-sided, 
or  was  it  the  unevenness  of  her  tear-filled 
vision?  She  unwound  it  a  little  to  remedy 
the  defect  as  her  father  went  on. 

"Things  do  not  present  themselves  to  my 
mind  as  they  once  did.  I  have  not  decided 
just  what  course  to  pursue,  but  it  would 
certainly  not  be  honorable  for  me  to  occupy 
the  pulpit  in  my  present  frame  of  mind. 
You  've  been  a  very  faithful  daughter,  Mar 
g'et  Ann,"  he  broke  off,  "  a  good  daughter." 

122 


MARG'ET  ANN 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  sitting  there 
winding  the  great  ball  with  her  trembling 
fingers;  her  failure  to  speak  did  not  suggest 
any  coldness  to  either  of  them;  response 
would  have  startled  him. 

"  I  have  thought  much  about  it,"  he  went 
on.  "  I  have  had  time  to  think  under  this 
affliction.  Nancy  Helen  is  old  enough  to  be 
trusted  now,  and  when  Laban  marries  he  will 
perhaps  be  willing  to  rent  the  land.  No  doubt 
you  could  get  both  the  summer  and  winter 
schools  in  the  district;  that  would  be  a  great 
help.  The  congregation  has  not  been  able 
to  pay  much,  but  it  would  be  a  loss  "  — 

He  faltered  for  the  first  time;  there  was 
a  shame  in  mentioning  money  in  connection 
with  his  office. 

"  I  have  suffered  a  good  deal  of  distress  of 
mind,  child,  but  doubtless  it  is  salutary  — 
it  is  salutary." 

He  reached  for  his  crutches  again  rest 
lessly,  and  then  drew  back,  remembering  the 
pain  of  rising. 

Marg'et  Ann  had  finished  the  ball  of  car 
pet  rags  and  laid  it  carefully  in  the  box  with 
123 


MARG'ET  ANN 

the  others.  She  had  taken  great  pains  with 
the  coloring,  thinking  of  the  best  room  in 
her  new  home,  and  Lloyd  had  a  man's  liking 
for  red. 

And  now  the  old  question  had  come  back; 
it  was  older  than  she  knew.  Doubtless  it  was 
right  that  men  should  always  have  opinions 
and  aspirations  and  principles,  and  women 
only  ties  and  duties  and  heartaches.  It 
seemed  cruel,  though,  just  now.  She  choked 
back  the  throbbing  pain  in  her  throat  that 
threatened  to  make  itself  seen  and  heard. 

"  Of  course  I  must  do  right,  Marg'et  Ann." 

Her  father's  voice  seemed  almost  pleading. 

Of  course  he  must  do  right.  Marg'et  Ann 
had  not  dreamed  of  anything  else.  Only  it 
was  a  little  hard  just  now. 

She  glanced  at  him,  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair  with  the  crutches  beside  him.  He  looked 
feeble  about  the  temples,  and  his  patched 
dressing-gown  hung  loose  in  wrinkles.  She 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  him.  Of 
course  she  would  stay  with  him.  She  did 
not  ask  herself  why.  She  did  not  reason  that 
it  was  because  motherhood  underlies  wife- 
124 


MARG'ET  ANN 

hood  and  makes  it  sweet  and  sufficing; 
makes  every  good  woman  a  mother  to  every 
dependent  creature,  be  it  strong  or  weak.  I 
doubt  if  she  reasoned  at  all.  She  only  said,  — 

"  Of  course  you  will  do  right,  father,  and 
I  will  see  about  the  school;  I  think  I  can 
get  it.  You  must  not  worry;  we  shall  get 
on  very  well." 

Out  in  the  June  sunshine  Lloyd  was  com 
ing  up  the  walk  with  Nancy  Helen.  She 
had  been  gathering  wild  strawberries  in  the 
meadow  across  the  lane,  and  they  had  met 
at  the  gate.  Her  sunbonnet  was  pushed  back 
from  her  crinkly  hair,  and  her  cheeks  were 
stained  redder  than  her  finger-tips  by  Lloyd's 
teasing. 

Marg'et  Ann  looked  at  them  and  sighed. 

After  her  brother's  return  from  presbytery 
Miss  Nancy  McClanahan  borrowed  her  sis 
ter-in-law's  horse  and  rode  over  to  visit  the 
Morrisons.  It  was  not  often  that  Miss  Nancy 
made  a  trip  of  this  kind  alone,  and  Marg'et 
Ann  ran  down  the  walk  to  meet  her,  rolling 
down  her  sleeves  and  smoothing  her  hair. 
I2S 


MARG'ET   ANN 

Miss  Nancy  took  the  girl's  soft  cheeks  in 
her  hands  and  drew  them  into  the  shadow 
of  her  cavernous  sunbonnet  for  a  withered 
kiss. 

"  I  want  to  see  your  father,  Margie,"  she 
whispered,  and  the  gentle  constraint  of  spirit 
ual  things  came  into  Marg'et  Ann's  voice  as 
she  answered, — 

"He's  in  the  best  room  alone;  I  moved 
him  in  there  this  morning  to  be  out  of  the 
sweeping.  You  can  go  right  in." 

She  lingered  a  little,  hoping  her  old  friend's 
concern  of  soul  might  not  have  obscured  her 
interest  in  the  salt-rising  bread,  which  had 
been  behaving  untowardly  of  late;  but  Miss 
Nancy  turned  her  steps  in  the  direction  of 
the  best  room,  and  Marg'et  Ann  opened  the 
door  for  her,  saying,  — 

"  It 's  Miss  McClanahan,  father." 

The  minister  looked  up,  wrinkling  his 
forehead  in  the  effort  to  disentangle  himself 
from  his  thoughts.  The  old  maid  crossed  the 
room  toward  him  with  her  quick,  hitching 
step. 

"  Don't  try  to  get  up,  Joseph,"  she  said, 
126 


MARG'ET  ANN 

as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  crutches;  "I'll 
find  myself  a  chair." 

She  sat  down  before  him,  crossing  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  The  little  worn  band  of 
gold  was  not  on  her  finger,  but  there  was  a 
smooth  white  mark  where  it  had  been. 

"  Samuel  got  home  from  presbytery  yes 
terday;  he  told  me  what  was  before  them. 
I  thought  I  'd  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you." 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  stopped.  A 
faint  color  showed  itself  through  the  silvery 
stubble  on  the  minister's  cheeks;  he  patted 
the  arms  of  his  chair  nervously. 

"  I  'm  hardly  prepared  to  discuss  my  opin 
ions.  They  are  vague,  very  vague,  at  best. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  unsettle  the  faith  "  — 

"  I  don't  care  at  all  about  your  opinions," 
Miss  Nancy  interrupted,  pushing  his  words 
away  with  both  hands ;  "  I  only  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  Marg'et  Ann." 

"Marg'et  Ann!"  The  minister's  relief 
breathed  itself  out  in  gentle  surprise. 

"Yes,   Marg'et  Ann.    I   think    it's  time 
somebody   was   thinking   of    her,  Joseph." 
127 


MARG'ET  ANN 

Miss  Nancy  leaned  forward,  her  face  the 
color  of  a  withered  rose.  "  She 's  doing  over 
again  what  I  did.  Perhaps  it  was  best  for 
you.  I  believe  it  was,  and  I  don't  want  you 
to  say  a  word,  —  you  must  n't,  —  but  I  can 
speak,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  let  Marg'et  Ann 
live  my  life  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Nancy." 
The  minister  laid  his  hands  on  his  crutches 
and  refused  to  be  motioned  back  into   his 
chair.    He  stood  before  her,  looking  down 
anxiously  into  her  thin,  eager  face. 

"  I  know  you  don't.  Esther  never  under 
stood,  either.  You  did  n't  know  that  Marg'et 
Ann  gave  up  Lloyd  Archer  because  he  had 
doubts,  but  I  knew  it.  I  wanted  to  speak 
then,  but  I  couldn't  —  to  her  —  Esther, — 
and  now  you  don't  know  that  she  's  going  to 
give  him  up  again  because  you  have  doubts, 
Joseph.  That 's  the  way  with  women.  They 
have  no  principles,  only  to  do  the  hardest 
thing.  But  I  know  what  it  means  to  work 
and  worry  and  pinch  and  have  nothing  in  the 
end,  not  even  troubles  of  your  own,  —  they 
would  be  some  comfort.  And  I  ?m  going  to 
128 


MARG'ET  ANN 

save  Marg'et  Ann  from  it.  I  'm  going  to 
come  here  and  take  her  place.  I  've  got  a 
little  something  of  my  own,  you  know;  I 
always  meant  it  for  her." 

She  stopped,  looking  at  him  expectantly. 
The  minister  turned  away,  rubbing  his  hands 
up  and  down  his  polished  crutches.  There 
was  a  soft,  troubled  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Why,  Nancy!" 

His  companion  got  up  and  moved  a  step 
backward.  Her  cheeks  flushed  a  pale,  faded 
red. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  with  a  quick,  impatient 
movement  of  her  head,  "not  that,  Joseph; 
that  died  years  ago,  —  you  are  the  same  to 
me  as  other  men,  excepting  that  you  are 
Marg'et  Ann's  father.  It 's  for  her.  It 's  the 
only  way  I  can  live  my  life  over  again,  by 
letting  her  live  hers.  I  don't  know  that  it 
will  be  any  better;  but  she  will  know,  she 
will  have  a  certainty  in  place  of  a  doubt.  I 
don't  know  that  my  life  would  have  been 
any  better;  I  know  yours  would  not,  and 
anyway  it 's  all  over  now.  I  know  I  can  get 
on  with  the  children,  and  I  don't  think  peo- 
129 


MARG'ET  ANN 

pie  will  talk.  I  hope  you  're  not  going  to 
object,  Joseph.  We  Ve  always  been  very 
good  friends." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can,  Nancy.  It 's  very 
good  of  you.  Perhaps,"  he  added,  looking 
at  her  with  a  wistful  desire  for  contradiction, 
—  "perhaps  I've  been  a  little  selfish  about 
Marg'et  Ann." 

"  I  don't  think  you  meant  to  be,  Joseph," 
said  the  old  maid  soothingly;  "when  any 
body  's  so  good  as  Marg'et  Ann,  she  does  n't 
call  for  much  grace  in  the  people  about  her. 
I  think  it 's  a  duty  we  owe  to  other  people  to 
have  some  faults." 

Outside  the  door  Marg'et  Ann  still  lin 
gered,  with  her  anxiety  about  the  bread  on 
her  lips  and  the  shadow  of  much  serving  in 
her  soft  eyes.  Miss  Nancy  stopped  and  drew 
her  favorite  into  the  shelter  of  her  gaunt 
arms. 

"  I  'm  coming  over  next  week  to  help  you 

get  ready  for  the  wedding,  Margie,"  she  said, 

"  and  I  'm  going  to  stay  when  you  're  gone 

and  look  after  things.    They  don't  need  me 

130 


MARG'ET  ANN 

at  Samuel's  now,  and  I  '11  be  more  comfort 
able  here.  I  've  got  enough  to  pay  a  little 
for  my  board  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  work  very  hard,  but  I  can  show 
Nancy  Helen  and  keep  the  run  of  things. 
There,  don't  cry.  We  '11  go  and  look  at  the 
sponge  now.  I  guess  you'd  better  ride  over 
to  Yankee  Neck  this  afternoon,  and  tell  them 
you  don't  want  the  winter  school  —  There, 
there!" 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Trail 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Trail 


THE  slope  in  front  of  old  Mosey's  cabin 
was  a  mass  of  purple  lupine.  Behind 
the  house  the  wild  oats  were  dotted  with 
brodiaea,  waving  on  long,  glistening  stems. 
The  California  lilac  was  in  bloom  on  the 
trail,  and  its  clumps  of  pale  blossoms  were 
like  breaks  in  the  chaparral,  showing  the 
blue  sky  beyond. 

In  the  corral  between  the  house  and  the 
mountain-side  stood  a  dozen  or  more  burros, 
wearing  that  air  of  patient  resignation  com 
mon  to  very  good  women  and  very  obstinate 
beasts.  Old  Mosey  himself  was  pottering 
about  the  corral,  feeding  his  stock.  He 
stooped  now  and  then  with  the  unwilling 
ness  of  years,  and  erected  himself  by  slow, 
rheumatic  stages.  The  donkeys  crowded 
about  the  fence  as  he  approached  with  a 
'35 


AT  THE  FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

forkful  of  alfalfa  hay,  and  he  pushed  them 
about  with  the  flat  of  the  prongs,  calling 
them  by  queer,  inappropriate  names. 

A  young  man  in  blue  overalls  came  around 
the  corner  of  the  house,  swinging  a  newly 
trimmed  manzanita  stick. 

«  Hello,  Mosey!  "  he  called.  «  Here  I  am 
again,  as  hungry  as  a  coyote.  What's  the 
lay-out?  Cottontail  on  toast  and  patty  de 
foy  grass,?  " 

The  old  man  grinned,  showing  his  worn, 
yellow  teeth. 

"  I  '11  be  there  in  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Just 
set  down  on  the  step." 

The  young  fellow  came  toward  the  corral. 

"  I  've  got  a  job  on  the  trail,"  he  said.  "  I  'm 
going  down-town  for  my  traps.  Who  named 
'em  for  you  ?  "  he  questioned,  as  the  old  man 
swore  softly  at  the  Democratic  candidate  for 
President. 

"  Oh,  the  women,  mostly.  They  take  a  lot 
of  interest  in  'em  when  they  start  out;  they  're 
afraid  I  ain't  good  to  them.  They  don't  say 
so  much  about  it  when  they  get  back." 

"  They  're  too  tired,  I  suppose." 
136 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose  so." 

"  You  let  out  five  this  morning,  did  n't 
you  ?  I  met  them  on  my  way  down.  The 
girl  in  bloomers  seemed  to  be  scared;  she 
gave  a  little  screech  every  few  minutes. 
The  others  did  n't  appear  to  mind." 

"Oh,  she  wasn't  afraid.  Women  don't 
make  a  noise  when  they  're  scared;  it 's  only 
when  they  want  to  scare  somebody  else." 

The  young  fellow  leaned  against  the  fence 
and  laughed,  with  a  final  whoop.  A  gray 
donkey  investigated  his  hip  pocket,  and  he 
reached  back  and  prodded  the  intruder  with 
his  stick. 

"  You  seem  to  be  up  on  the  woman  ques 
tion,  Mosey.  It 's  queer  you  ain't  married." 

The  old  man  was  lifting  a  boulder  to  hold 
down  a  broken  bale  of  hay,  and  made  no 
reply.  His  visitor  started  toward  the  cabin. 
The  old  man  adjusted  another  boulder  and 
trotted  after  his  guest,  brushing  the  hay 
from  his  flannel  shirt.  A  column  of  blue- 
white  smoke  arose  from  the  rusty  stovepipe 
in  the  cabin  roof,  and  the  smell  of  overdone 
coffee  drifted  out  upon  the  spiced  air. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF   THE  TRAIL 

"  I  was  just  about  settin'  down,"  said  the 
host,  placing  another  plate  and  cup  and  sau 
cer  on  the  blackened  redwood  table.  "  I  '11 
fry  you  some  more  bacon  and  eggs." 

The  visitor  watched  him  as  he  hurried 
about  with  the  short,  uncertain  steps  of  hos 
pitable  old  age. 

"  By  gum,  Mosey,  I  'd  marry  a  grass- 
widow  with  a  second-hand  family  before  I  'd 
do  my  own  cooking." 

The  young  fellow  gave  a  self-conscious 
laugh  that  made  the  old  man  glance  at  him 
from  under  his  weather-beaten  straw  hat. 

"  Your  mind  seems  to  run  on  marryin'," 
he  said,  "  guess  you  're  hungry.  Set  up  and 
have  some  breakfast." 

The  visitor  drew  up  a  wooden  chair,  and 
the  old  man  poured  two  cups  of  black  coffee 
from  the  smoke-begrimed  coffee-pot  and 
returned  it  to  the  stove.  Then  he  took  off 
his  hat  and  seated  himself  opposite  his  guest. 
The  latter  stirred  three  heaping  teaspoon- 
fuls  of  sugar  into  his  cup,  muddied  the  re 
sulting  syrup  with  condensed  milk,  and  drank 
it  with  the  relish  of  abnormal  health. 
138 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Mosey,"  he  said,  reach 
ing  for  a  slice  of  bacon  and  dripping  the 
grease  across  the  table,  "there  ain't  any 
flies  on  the  women  when  it  comes  to  house 
keeping.  Now,  a  woman  would  turn  on  the 
soapsuds  and  float  you  clean  out  of  this 
house;  then  she  'd  mop  up,  and  put  scalloped 
noospapers  on  all  the  shelves,  and  little  white 
aprons  on  the  windows,  and  pillow-shams  on 
your  bunk,  and  she  'd  work  a  doily  for  you  to 
lay  your  six-shooter  on,  with  '  God  bless  our 
home  '  in  the  corner  of  it;  and  she'd  make 
you  so  comfortable  you  would  n't  know  what 
to  do  with  yourself." 

"  I  'm  comfortable  enough  by  myself,"  said 
the  old  man  uneasily.  "When  you  work  for 
yourself,  you  know  who  's  boss." 

"Naw,  you  don't,  Mosey,  not  by  a  long 
shot;  you  don't  know  whether  you  're  boss 
or  the  cookin'.  I  tried  bachin'  once  "  —  the 
speaker  made  a  grimace  of  reminiscent  dis 
gust;  "the  taste  has  n't  gone  out  of  my  mouth 
yet.  You  're  a  pretty  fair  cook,  Mosey,  but 
you'd  ought  to  see  my  girl's  biscuits;  she 
makes  'em  so  light  she  has  to  put  a  napkin 

'39 


AT  THE  FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

over  'em  to  keep  'em  from  floating  around 
like  feathers.  Fact!  "  He  reached  over  and 
speared  a  slice  of  bread  with  his  fork.  "  If  I 
keep  this  job  on  the  trail,  maybe  you  '11  have 
a  chance  to  sample  them  biscuits.  I  'm  goin' 
to  send  East  for  that  girl." 

"  Where  you  goin'  to  live  ?  " 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  but  we  could  rent 
this  ranch  and  board  you,  Mosey.  Seems  to 
me  you  ought  to  retire.  It  ain't  human  to  live 
this  way.  If  you  was  to  die  here  all  by  your 
self,  you  'd  regret  it.  Well,  I  must  toddle." 

The  visitor  stood  a  moment  on  the  step, 
sweeping  the  valley  with  his  fresh  young 
glance;  then  he  set  his  hat  on  the  back  of 
his  head  and  went  whistling  down  the  road, 
waving  his  stick  at  old  Mosey  as  he  disap 
peared  among  the  sycamores  in  the  wash. 
The  old  man  gathered  the  dishes  into  a  rusty 
pan,  and  scalded  them  with  boiling  water 
from  the  kettle. 

"  I  believe  I  '11  do  it,"  he  said,  as  he  fished 
the  hot  saucers  out  by  their  edges  and  turned 
them  down  on  the  table;  "it  can't   do  no 
harm  to  write  to  her,  no  way." 
140 


AT  THE  FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

II 

Mrs.  Moxom  put  on  her  slat  sunbonnet, 
took  a  tin  pan  from  the  pantry  shelf,  and 
hurried  across  the  kitchen  toward  the  door. 
Her  daughter-in-law  looked  up  from  the 
corner  where  she  was  kneading  bread.  She 
was  a  short,  plump  woman,  and  all  of  her 
convexities  seemed  emphasized  by  flour. 
She  put  up  the  back  of  her  hand  to  adjust 
a  loosened  lock  of  hair,  and  added  another 
high  light  to  her  forehead. 

"  Where  you  going,  mother?  "  she  called 
anxiously. 

The  old  woman  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"Oh,  just  out  to  see  how  the  lettuce  is 
coming  on.  I  had  a  notion  I  'd  like  some  for 
dinner,  wilted  with  ham  gravy." 

"Can't  one  of  the  children  get  it?" 

There  was  no  response.  Mrs.  Weaver 
turned  back  to  her  bread. 

"  Your  grandmother  seems  kind  of  fidgety 

this    morning,"    she    fretted    to    her    eldest 

daughter,  who  was  decorating  the  cupboard 

shelves  with  tissue  paper  of  an  enervating 

141 


AT   THE   FOOT   OF   THE  TRAIL 

magenta  hue,  and  indulging  at  intervals  in 
vocal  reminiscences  of  a  ship  that  never 
returned. 

"  Oh,  well,  mother,"  said  that  young  per 
son  comfortably,  "  let  her  alone.  I  think  we 
all  tag  her  too  much.  I  hate  to  be  tagged 
myself." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  tag  her, 
Ethel  ;  I  just  don't  want  her  to  overdo." 

Mrs.  Weaver  spoke  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
injury  and  self-justification. 

"  Oh,  well,  mother,  she  is  n't  likely  to  put 
her  shoulder  out  of  joint  pulling  a  few  heads 
of  lettuce." 

The  girl  broke  out  again  into  cheerful 
interrogations  concerning  the  disaster  at 
sea:  — 

"  Did  she  neverr  returren? 
No,  she  never r  returrened." 

Mrs.  Weaver  gave  a  little  sigh,  as  if  she 
feared  her  daughter's  words  might  prove 
prophetic,  and  buried  her  plump  fists  in  the 
puffy  dough. 

Old  Mrs.  Moxom  turned  when  she  reached 
the  garden  gate  and  glanced  back  at  the 

142 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

house.  Then  she  clasped  the  pan  to  her 
breast  and  skurried  along  the  fence  toward 
the  orchard.  Once  under  the  trees,  she  did 
not  look  behind  her,  but  went  rapidly  toward 
the  field  where  she  knew  her  son  was  plow 
ing.  The  reflection  of  the  sun  on  the  tin 
pan  made  him  look  up,  and  when  he  saw  her 
he  stopped  his  team.  She  came  across  the 
soft  brown  furrows  to  his  side. 

"  I  'd  have  come  to  the  fence  when  I  saw 
you,  if  I  had  n't  had  the  colt,"  he  said  kindly. 
"What's  wanted?" 

The  old  woman's  face  twitched.  She 
pushed  her  sunbonnet  back  with  one  trem 
bling  hand. 

"Jason,"  she  said,  with  a  little  jerk  in  her 
voice,  "your  paw's  alive." 

The  man  arranged  the  lines  carefully 
along  the  colt's  back;  then  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  wiped  the  top  of  his  head  on  his 
sleeve,  looking  away  from  his  mother  with 
heavy,  dull  embarrassment. 

"  I  expect  you  'd  'most  forgot  all  about 
him,"  pursued  the  old  woman,  with  a  vague 
reproach  in  her  tone. 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF   THE  TRAIL 

"  I  had  n't  much  to  forget,"  answered  the 
man,  resentment  rising  in  his  voice.  "  He 
has  n't  troubled  himself  about  me." 

"  Well,  he  did  n't  know  anything  about 
you,  Jason,  he  went  away  so  soon  after  we 
was  married.  It 's  a  dreadful  position  to  be 
placed  in.  It  'u'd  be  awfully  embarrassing 
to  —  to  the  Moxom  girls." 

The  man  gave  her  a  quick,  curious  glance. 
He  had  never  heard  her  speak  of  his  half- 
sisters  in  that  way  before. 

"They  're  so  kind  of  high-toned,"  she  went 
on,  "just  as  like  as  not  they'd  blame  me. 
I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Jason  kicked  the  soft  earth  with  his  sun 
burnt  boot. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  asked  sullenly. 

"  In  Calif ornay." 

"  How  'd  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  got  a  letter.  He  wrote  to  Burtonville 
and  directed  it  to  Mrs.  Angeline  Weaver,  and 
the  postmaster  give  it  to  some  of  your  uncle 
Samuel's  folks,  and  they  put  it  in  another  en 
velope  and  backed  it  to  me  here.  I  thought 
at  first  I  would  n't  say  anything  about  it, 
144 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

but  it  seemed  as  if  I  'd  ought  to  tell  you;  it 
doesn't  hurt  you  any,  but  it  's  awful  hard 
on  the  —  the  Moxom  girls." 

The  man  shifted  his  weight,  and  kicked 
awhile  with  his  other  foot. 

"  Well,  I  'd  just  give  him  the  go-by,"  he 
announced  resolutely.  "  You  're  a  decent 
man's  widow,  and  that's  enough.  He  's 


never  " 


"  Oh,  I  ain't  saying  anything  against  your 
step-paw,  Jason,"  the  old  woman  broke  in 
anxiously.  "  He  was  an  awful  good  man.  It 
seems  queer  to  think  it  was  the  way  it  was. 
Dear  me,  it's  all  so  kind  of  confusing!" 

The  poor  woman  looked  down  with  much 
the  same  embarrassment  over  her  matrimo 
nial  redundance  that  a  man  might  feel  when 
suddenly  confronted  by  twins. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  how  I  could  help 
thinking  he  was  dead,"  she  went  on  after  a 
little  silence,  "  when  he  wrote  he  was  going 
off  on  that  trip  and  might  never  come  back, 
and  the  man  that  was  with  him  wrote  that 
they  got  lost  from  each  other,  and  water  was 
so  scarce  and  all  that.  And  then,  you  know, 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

I  did  n't  get  married  again  till  you  was  'most 
ten  years  old, Jason.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I  don't  want  to  mortify  anybody, 
but  I  'd  like  to  know  just  what 's  my  dooty." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  easy  enough."  The 
man's  voice  was  getting  beyond  control, 
but  he  drew  it  in  with  a  quick,  angry  breath. 
"Just  drop  the  whole  thing.  If  he  's  got  on 
for  forty  years,  mother,  I  guess  he  can  man 
age  for  the  rest  of  the  time." 

"  But  it  ain't  so  easy  managin'  when  you 
begin  to  get  old,  Jason.  I  know  how  that 


is." 


Her  son  jerked  the  lines  impatiently,  and 
the  colt  gave  a  nervous  start. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  this  farm  really  came 
to  you  from  your  paw,  don't  you,  Jason?" 
she  asked  humbly. 

"  Don't  know  as  I  did,"  answered  the  man, 
without  enthusiasm. 

"Well,  you  see,  after  we  was  married,  your 
grandfather  Weaver  offered  your  paw  this 
quarter-section  if  he  'd  stay  here  in  loway; 
but  he  had  his  heart  set  on  going  to  Califor- 
nay,  and  did  n't  want  it;  so  after  it  turned 
146 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF   THE  TRAIL 

out  the  way  it  did,  and  you  was  born,  your 
grandfather  gave  me  this  farm,  and  I  done 
very  well  with  it.  That 's  the  reason  your 
step-paw  insisted  on  you  having  it  when  we 
was  dividing  things  up  before  he  died." 

"  Seems  to  me  father  worked  pretty  hard 
on  this  place  himself." 

The  man  said  the  word  "  father  "  half  de 
fiantly. 

"  Mr.  Moxom  ?  Oh,  yes,  he  was  a  first- 
rate  manager,  and  the  kindest  man  that  ever 
drew  breath.  I  remember  when  your  sis 
ter  Angie  was  born  —  oh,  dear  me !  "  —  the 
old  woman  felt  her  voice  giving  way,  and 
stopped  an  instant,  —  "  it  seems  so  kind  of 
strange.  Well,  I  guess  we  'd  better  just  drop 
it,  Jason.  I  must  go  back  to  the  house. 
Emma  did  n't  like  my  coming  for  lettuce. 
She  '11  think  I  've  planted  some,  and  am 
waitin'  for  it  to  come  up." 

She  gave  her  son  a  quivering  smile  as  she 
turned  away.  He  stood  still  and  watched 
her  until  she  had  crossed  the  plowed  ground. 
It  seemed  to  him  she  walked  more  feebly 
than  when  she  came  out 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE   TRAIL 

"That's  awful  queer,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head,  "  calling  her  own  daughters  (  the 
Moxom  girls.' " 

III 

Ethel  Weaver  had  been  to  Ashland  for  the 
mail,  and  was  driving  home  in  the  summer 
dusk.  A  dash  of  rain  had  fallen  while  she 
was  in  the  village,  and  the  air  was  full  of  the 
odor  of  moist  earth  and  the  sweetness  of 
growing  corn.  The  colt  she  was  driving 
held  his  head  high,  glancing  from  side  to 
side  with  youthful  eagerness  for  a  sensation, 
and  shying  at  nothing  now  and  then  in  sheer 
excess  of  emotion  over  the  demand  of  his 
monotonous  life. 

The  girl  held  a  letter  in  her  lap,  turning 
the  pages  with  one  unincumbered  hand,  and 
lifting  her  flushed  face  with  a  contemptuous 
"  Oh,  Barney,  you  goose! "  as  the  colt  drew 
himself  into  attitudes  of  quivering  fright, 
which  dissolved  suddenly  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice  and  the  knowledge  that  another 
young  creature  viewed  his  coquettish  terrors 
with  the  disrespect  born  of  comprehension. 
148 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

As  they  turned  into  the  lane  west  of  the 
house,  Ethel  folded  her  letter  and  thrust  it 
hastily  into  her  pocket,  and  the  colt  darted 
through  the  open  gate  and  drew  up  at  the 
side  door  with  a  transparent  assumption  of 
serious  purpose  suggested  by  the  proximity 
of  oats. 

"  Ed!  "  called  the  girl,  "the  next  time  you 
hitch  up  Barney  for  me,  I  wish  you  'd  put 
a  kicking-strap  on  him.  I  had  a  picnic  with 
him  coming  down  the  hill  by  Arbuckle's." 

Ed  maintained  the  gruff  silence  of  the 
half-grown  rural  male  as  he  climbed  into 
the  buggy  beside  his  sister  and  cramped  the 
wheel  for  her  to  dismount. 

"  They  have  n't  any  quart  jars  over  at  the 
store,  mother,"  said  Ethel,  entering  the  house 
and  walking  across  to  the  mirror  to  remove 
her  hat.  "They're  expecting  some  every 
day.  Well,  I  do  look  like  the  Witch  of 
Endor!"  she  exclaimed,  twisting  her  loos 
ened  rope  of  hair  and  skewering  it  in  place 
with  a  white  celluloid  pin.  "  That  colt  acted 
as  if  he  was  possessed." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sorry  about  the  jars,"  said  Mrs. 
149 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

Weaver  regretfully.  "I  wanted  to  finish 
putting  up  the  curr'n's  to-morrow." 

"  Did  you  get  any  mail  ?  "  quavered  grand 
mother  Moxom. 

"  I  got  a  letter  from  Rob." 

There  was  a  little  hush  in  the  room.  The 
girl  stood  still  before  the  mirror,  with  a 
sense  of  support  in  the  dim  reflection  of  her 
own  face. 

"Is  he  well?"  ventured  the  old  woman 
feebly,  glancing  toward  her  daughter-in-law. 

"Yes,  he's  well;  he's  got  steady  work 
on  some  road  up  the  mountain.  He  writes 
as  if  people  keep  going  up,  but  he  never  tells 
what  they  go  up  for.  He  said  something 
about  a  lot  of  burros,  and  at  first  I  thought 
he  was  in  a  furniture  store,  but  I  found  out 
he  meant  mules.  An  old  man  keeps  them, 
and  hires  them  out  to  people.  Rob  calls  him 
'  old  Mosey.'  They  're  keeping  bach  to 
gether.  Rob  tried  to  make  biscuits,  and  he 
says  they  tasted  like  castor  oil." 

As  her  granddaughter  talked,  Mrs.  Moxom 
seemed  to  shrink  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  patchwork  cushion  of  her  chair. 


AT  THE  FOOT   OF   THE   TRAIL 

"  Rob  wants  me  to  come  out  there  and  be 
married,"  pursued  the  girl,  bending  nearer 
to  the  mirror  and  returning  her  own  gaze 
with  sympathy. 

"  Why,  Ethel !  "  Mrs.  Weaver's  voice  was 
full  of  astonished  disapproval.  "  I  should 
think  you  'd  be  ashamed  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"I  didn't  say  it;  Rob  said  it,"  returned 
the  girl,  making  a  little  grimace  at  herself 
in  the  glass. 

"  Well,  I  have  my  opinion  of  a  young  man 
that  will  say  such  a  thing  to  a  girl.  If  a  girl 's 
worth  having,  she  's  worth  coming  after." 

Mrs.  Weaver  made  this  latter  announce 
ment  with  an  air  of  triumph  in  its  triteness. 
Her  daughter  gave  a  little  sniff  of  con 
tempt. 

"  Well,  if  a  fellow  's  worth  having,  is  n't  he 
worth  going  to  ?  "  she  asked  with  would-be 
flippancy. 

"Why,  Ethel  Imogen  Weaver!"  Mrs. 
Weaver  repeated  her  daughter's  name 
slowly,  as  if  she  hoped  its  length  might 
arouse  in  the  owner  some  sense  of  her 
worth.  "  I  never  did  hear  the  like." 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

The  girl  left  the  mirror,  and  seated  herself 
in  a  chair  in  front  of  her  mother. 

"  It  '11  cost  Rob  a  hundred  dollars  to  come 
here  and  go  back  to  California,  and  a  hun 
dred  dollars  goes  a  long  way  toward  fixing 
up.  Besides,  he  '11  lose  his  job.  I  'd  just  as 
soon  go  out  there  as  have  him  come  here. 
If  people  don't  like  it  they  —  they  need  n't." 

The  girl's  fresh  young  voice  began  to 
thicken,  and  she  glanced  about  in  restless 
search  of  diversion  from  impending  tears. 

"Well,  girls  do  act  awful  strange  these 
days." 

Mrs.  Weaver  took  warning  from  her 
daughter's  tone  and  divided  her  disapproval 
by  multiplying  its  denominator. 

"  Yes,  they  do.  They  act  sometimes  as 
if  they  had  a  little  sense,"  retorted  Ethel 
huskily. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  call  it  sense  to 
pick  up  and  run  after  a  man,  even  if  you  're 
engaged  to  him;  do  you,  mother?" 

Old  Mrs.  Moxom  started  nervously  at  her 
daughter-in-law's  appeal. 

"Well,  it  does  seem  a  long  way  to  go 
152 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

on  —  on  an  uncertainty,  Ethel,"  she  fal 
tered. 

The  girl  turned  a  flushed,  indignant  face 
upon  her  grandmother. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  call  Rob 
an  uncertainty  ?  "  she  demanded  angrily. 

"Oh,  no;  I  don't  mean  that,"  pleaded  the 
old  woman.  "  I  have  n't  got  anything  agen' 
Rob.  I  don't  suppose  he  's  any  more  uncer 
tain  than  —  than  the  rest  of  them.  I  "  — 

"Why,  grandmother  Moxom,"  interrupted 
the  girl,  "  how  you  talk !  I  'm  sure  father 
is  n't  an  uncertainty,  and  there  was  n't  any 
thing  uncertain  about  grandfather  Moxom. 
To  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  think  they  're  just 
about  as  certain  as  we  are." 

The  old  woman  got  up  and  began  to  move 
the  chairs  about  with  purposeless  industry. 

"  It 's  awful  hard  to  know  what  to  do 
sometimes,"  she  said,  indulging  in  a  gener 
ality  that  might  be  mollifying,  but  was 
scarcely  glittering. 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  hard  for  me  to  know  this 
time,"  said  Mrs.  Weaver,  her  features  drawn 
into  a  look  of  pudgy  determination.  "No 
'S3 


AT  THE   FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

girl  of  mine  shall  ever  go  traipsing  off  to 
California  alone  on  any  such  wild-goose 
chase." 

Ethel  got  up  and  moved  toward  the  stair 
way,  her  tawny  head  thrown  back,  and  an 
eloquent  accentuation  of  heel  in  her  tread. 

"  I  just  believe  old  folks  like  for  young 
folks  to  be  foolish  and  wasteful,"  she  said 
over  her  shoulder,  "  so  they  can  have  some 
thing  to  nag  them  about.  I  'm  sure  I "  — 
She  slammed  the  door  upon  her  voice,  which 
seemed  to  be  carried  upward  in  a  little  whirl 
wind  of  indignation. 

Mrs.  Weaver  glanced  at  her  mother-in- 
law  for  sympathy,  but  the  old  woman  re 
fused  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"  I  'm  just  real  mad  at  Rob  Kendall  for 
suggesting  such  a  thing  and  getting  Ethel 
all  worked  up,"  clucked  the  younger  woman 
anxiously. 

Mrs.  Moxom  came  back  to  her  chair  as 
aimlessly  as  she  had  left  it. 

"  Men-folks  are  kind  of  helpless  when  it 
comes  to  planning,"  she  said  apologetically. 
"  To  think  of  them  poor  things  trying  to 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

keep  house  —  and  the  biscuits  being  soggy! 
It  does  kind  of  work  on  her  feelings,  Emma." 

Mrs.  Weaver  gave  her  mother-in-law  a 
glance  of  rotund  severity. 

"  I  don't  mind  their  getting  married,"  she 
said,  "but  I  want  it  done  decent.  I  don't 
intend  to  pack  my  daughter  off  to  any  man 
as  if  she  was  n't  worth  coming  after,  biscuits 
or  no  biscuits! " 

She  lifted  her  chin  and  looked  at  her  com 
panion  over  the  barricade  of  conventionality 
that  lay  between  them  with  the  air  of  one 
whose  position  is  unassailable.  The  old 
woman  sighed  with  much  the  same  air,  but 
with  none  of  her  daughter-in-law's  satisfac 
tion  in  it. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said  drear 
ily;  "  sometimes  it  ain't  easy  to  know  your 
dooty  at  a  glance." 

Mrs.  Weaver  made  no  response,  but  her 
expression  was  not  favorable  to  such  lax 
uncertainty. 

"The  way  mother  Moxom  talked,"  she 
said  to  her  husband  that  night, "  you  'd  have 
thought  she  sided  with  Ethel." 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

Jason  Weaver  was  far  too  much  of  a  man 
to  hazard  an  opinion  on  the  proprieties  in  the 
face  of  his  wife's  disapproval,  so  he  grunted 
an  amiable  acquiescence  in  that  spirit  of  jus 
tifiable  hypocrisy  known  among  his  kind  as 
"  humoring  the  women-folks."  Privately  he 
was  disposed  to  exult  in  his  daughter's  spirit 
and  good  sense,  and  so  long  as  these  admira 
ble  qualities  did  not  take  her  away  from  him, 
and  paternal  pride  and  affection  were  both 
gratified,  he  saw  no  reason  to  complain. 
This  satisfaction,  however,  did  not  prevent 
his  "stirring  her  up"  now  and  then,  as  he 
said,  that  he  might  sun  himself  in  the  glow 
of  her  youthful  temper  and  chuckle  inwardly 
over  her  smartness. 

"Well,  Dot,  how's  Rob  ?"  he  asked  jo 
vially  one  evening  at  supper  about  a  month 
later.  "Does  he  still  think  he's  worth  run 
ning  after  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  thinks  so  or 
not,  but  I  know  he  is,"  asserted  the  young 
woman,  tilting  her  chin  and  looking  away 
from  her  father  with  a  cool  filial  contempt 
for  his  pleasantries  bred  by  familiarity. 

'56 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

"  He 's  well  enough,  but  the  old  man  that 
lives  with  him  had  a  fall  and  broke  his  leg, 
and  Rob  has  to  take  care  of  him." 

Old  Mrs.  Moxom  laid  down  her  knife  and 
fork,  and  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap  hope 
lessly. 

"Well,  now,  what  made  him  go  and  do 
that?  "  she  asked,  with  a  fretful  quaver  in  her 
voice,  as  if  this  were  the  last  straw. 

"  I  don't  know,  grandmother,"  answered 
Ethel  cheerfully.  "  As  soon  as  he  's  well 
enough  to  be  moved,  they  're  going  to  take 
him  to  the  county  hospital.  I  guess  that 's  the 
poorhouse.  But  Rob  says  he 's  so  old  they  're 
afraid  the  bone  won't  knit ;  he  suffers^  like 
everything.  Poor  old  man,  I  'm  awful  sorry 
for  him.  Rob  has  to  do  all  the  cooking." 

The  old  woman  pushed  back  her  chair 
and  brushed  the  crumbs  from  her  apron. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  upstairs  and  lay  down 
awhile,  Emma.  I  been  kind  of  light-headed 
all  afternoon.  I  guess  I  set  too  long  over 
them  carpet  rags." 

She  got  up  and  crossed  the  room  hur 
riedly.  Her  son  looked  after  her  with  anx- 


AT   THE   FOOT   OF  THE   TRAIL 

ious  eyes.  Presently  they  heard  her  toiling 
up  the  stairs  with  the  slow,  inelastic  tread  of 
infancy  and  old  age. 

"  I  don't  know  what  's  come  over  your 
mother,  Jason,"  said  his  wife.  "  She  has  n't 
been  herself  all  summer.  Sometimes  I  think 
I  'd  ought  to  write  to  the  girls." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  ^he  '11  be  all  right,"  said 
Jason,  with  masculine  hopefulness.  "Dot, 
you'd  better  go  up  by  and  by  and  see  if 
grandmother  wants  anything." 

Safe  in  her  own  room,  Mrs.  Moxom  sank 
into  a  chair  with  a  long  breath  of  relief  and 
dismay. 

"The  poorhouse!"  she  gasped.  "That 
seems  about  as  mortifying  as  to  own  up  to 
your  girls  that  you  was  n't  never  rightly 
married  to  their  father." 

She  got  up  and  wandered  across  the  room 
to  the  bureau.  "  I  expect  he 's  changed  a 
good  deal,"  she  murmured.  She  took  a 
daguerreotype  from  the  upper  drawer,  and 
gazed  at  it  curiously.  "  Yes,  I  expect  he  's 
changed  quite  a  good  deal,"  she  repeated, 
with  a  sigh. 

158 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

IV 

"  Why,  mother  Moxom!  " 

Mrs.  Weaver  sank  into  her  sewing-chair 
in  an  attitude  of  pulpy  despair. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  but  what  it 's  the  best 
thing  for  me  to  do,"  asserted  the  old  woman. 
"  The  cold  weather  '11  be  coming  on  soon, 
and  I  always  have  more  or  less  rheumatism, 
and  they  say  Californay  's  good  for  rheuma 
tism.  Besides,  I  think  I  need  to  stir  round  a 
little;  I  've  stayed  right  here  'most  too  close; 
and  as  long  as  Ethel  has  her  heart  set  on 
going,  I  don't  see  but  what  it 's  the  best  plan. 
If  I  go  along  with  her,  I  can  make  sure  that 
everything  's  all  right.  If  you  and  Jason  say 
she  can't  go,  why,  then,  I  don't  see  but  what 
I  '11  just  have  to  start  off  and  make  the  trip 
alone." 

"  Why,  mother  Moxom,  I  just  don't  know 
what  to  say !  " 

Mrs.  Weaver's  tone  conveyed  a  deep- 
seated  sense  of  injury  that  she  should  thus 
be  deprived  of  speech  for  such  insufficient 
cause. 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

"  'T  is  n't  such  a  very  hard  trip,"  pursued 
the  old  woman  doggedly.  "  They  say  you 
get  on  one  of  them  through  trains  and  take 
your  provision  and  your  knitting,  and  just 
live  along  the  road.  It  is  n't  as  if  you  had  to 
change  cars  at  every  junction,  and  get  so 
turned  round  you  don't  know  which  way 
your  head  's  set  on  your  shoulders." 

Mrs.  Weaver's  expression  began  to  dis 
solve  into  reluctant  interest  in  these  de 
tails. 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  you  think  it  '11  help 
your  rheumatism,  and  you  've  got  your  mind 
made  up  to  go,  somebody  '11  have  to  go  with 
you.  Have  you  asked  Jason  ?  " 

"No,  I  haven't."  Mrs.  Moxom's  voice 
took  on  an  edge.  "  I  can't  see  just  why  I  've 
got  to  ask  people;  sometimes  I  think  I'm 
about  old  enough  to  do  as  I  please." 

"  Why,  of  course,  mother,"  soothed  the 
daughter-in-law.  "  Would  you  go  and  see 
the  girls  before  you  'd  start  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  I  would,"  answered 
the  old  woman,  her  voice  relaxing  under  this 
acquiescence.  "  They  'd  only  make  a  fuss. 
160 


AT  THE   FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

They  Ve  both  got  good  homes  and  good 
men,  and  they  're  married  to  them  right  and 
lawful,  and  there  's  nothing  to  worry  about. 
Besides,  I  'd  just  get  interested  in  the  chil 
dren,  and  that  'd  make  it  harder.  I  Ve  done 
the  best  I  knew  how  by  the  girls,  and  I 
don't  know  as  they've  got  any  reason  to 
complain  "  — 

"Why,  no,  mother,"  interrupted  the 
daughter-in-law,  with  rising  feathers,  "  I 
never  heard  anybody  say  but  what  you  'd 
done  well  by  all  your  children.  I  only 
thought  they  'd  want  to  see  you.  I  think 
they  'd  come  over  if  they  knew  it  —  well,  of 
course,  Angie  could  n't,  having  a  young  baby 
so,  but  Laura  she  'd  come  in  a  minute." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  I  want  to  see  them," 
persisted  Mrs.  Moxom.  "  It  '11  only  make  it 
harder.  I  guess  you  need  n't  let  them  know 
I  'm  goin'.  Ethel  and  I  '11  start  as  soon  as 
she  can  get  ready.  Seems  like  Rob  's  having 
a  pretty  hard  time.  He  could  n't  come  after 
Ethel  now  if  he  wanted  to.  It  would  n't  be 
right  for  him  to  leave  that  —  that  —  old  gen 
tleman." 

161 


AT   THE   FOOT   OF   THE  TRAIL 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  want  the  girls  to  have 
any  hard  feelings  towards  me." 

"  The  Moxom  girls  ain't  a-going  to  have 
any  hard  feelings  towards  you,  Emma/'  as 
serted  the  old  woman,  with  emphasis. 

"  She  has  the  queerest  way  of  talking 
about  your  sisters,  Jason,"  Mrs.  Weaver  con 
fided  to  her  husband  later.  "  It  makes  me 
think,  sometimes,  she 's  failing  pretty  fast." 


As  the  road  to  the  foot  of  the  trail  grew 
steeper,  Rob  Kendall  found  an  increasing 
difficulty  in  guiding  his  team  with  one  hand. 
His  bride  drew  herself  from  his  encircling 
arm  reluctantly. 

"  You  'd  better  look  after  the  horses,"  she 
said,  with  a  vivid  blush.  "  What  '11  grand 
mother  think  of  us  ?  " 

The  young  fellow  removed  the  offending 
arm  and  reached  back  to  pat  the  old  lady's 
knee. 

"  I  ain't  afraid  of  grandmother,"  he  said 
joyously.  "  Grandmother  's  a  brick.  If  she 

162 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

stays  out  here  long,  she  '11  soon  be  the  young 
est  woman  on  the  mesa.  I  should  n't  won 
der  if  she  'd  pick  up  some  nice  old  gentle 
man  herself  —  how's  that,  grandmother?" 
He  bent  down  and  kissed  his  wife's  ear. 
"  Catch  me  going  back  on  grandmothers 
after  this ! " 

"  You  have  n't  changed  a  bit,  Rob,"  said 
Ethel  fondly;  "has  he,  grandmother?"  She 
turned  her  radiant  smile  upon  the  withered 
face  behind  her. 

The  old  woman  did  not  answer.  The 
newly  wedded  couple  resumed  their  raptur 
ous  contemplation  of  each  other. 

"  How 's  that  funny  old  man,  Rob  ?  "  asked 
Ethel,  smoothing  out  her  dimples. 

"Old  Mosey?  He's  pretty  rocky.  I'm 
afraid  he  won't  pull  through."  Rob  strove 
to  adjust  his  voice  to  the  subject.  "  I  'd  'a' 
got  a  house  down  in  town,  but  I  did  n't  like 
to  leave  him.  We  '11  have  to  go  pretty  soon, 
though.  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  be  lonesome  up 
here." 

The  old  woman  on  the  back  seat  leaned 
forward  a  little.  The  young  couple  smiled 

163 


AT  THE   FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

exultantly  into  each  other's  eyes,  with  superb 
scorn  of  the  world. 

"Lonesome!"  sneered  the  girl. 

Her  husband  drew  her  close  to  him  with 
an  ecstatic  hug. 

"  Yes,  lonesome,"  he  laughed,  his  voice 
smothered  in  her  bright  hair. 

The  old  woman  settled  back  in  her  seat 
The  team  made  their  way  slowly  through 
the  sandy  wash  between  the  boulders.  When 
they  emerged  from  the  sycamores,  Rob 
pointed  toward  the  cabin.  "  That 's  the 
place !  "  he  said  triumphantly. 

The  sunset  was  sifting  through  the  live- 
oaks  upon  the  shake  roof.  Two  tents 
gleamed  white  beside  it,  frescoed  with  the 
shadow  of  moving  leaves.  Ethel  lifted  her 
head  from  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  looked 
at  her  home  with  the  faith  in  her  eyes  that 
has  kept  the  world  young. 

"  I  ?ve  put  up  some  tents  for  us,"  said  the 
young  fellow  gleefully;  "but  you  mustn't 
go  in  till  I  get  the  team  put  away.  I  won't 
have  you  laughing  at  my  housekeeping  be 
hind  my  back.  Old  Mosey  's  asleep  in  the 

164 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

shanty;  the  doctor  gives  him  something  to 
keep  him  easy.  You  can  go  in  there  and 
sit  down,  grandmother;  you  won't  disturb 
him." 

He  helped  them  out  of  the  wagon,  linger 
ing  a  little  with  his  wife  in  his  arms.  The  old 
woman  left  them  and  went  into  the  house. 
She  crossed  the  floor  hesitatingly,  and  bent 
over  the  feeble  old  face  on  the  pillow. 

"It's  just  as  I  expected;  he's  changed  a 
good  deal,"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  old  man  opened  his  eyes. 

"  I  was  sayin'  you  'd  changed  a  good  deal, 
Moses,"  she  repeated  aloud. 

There  was  no  intelligence  in  his  gaze. 

"  For  that  matter,  I  expect  I  've  changed 
a  good  deal  myself,"  she  went  on.  "  I  heard 
you  'd  had  a  fall,  and  I  thought  I  'd  better 
come  out.  You  was  always  kind  of  hard  to 
take  care  of  when  you  was  sick.  I  remember 
that  time  you  hurt  your  foot  on  the  scythe, 
just  after  we  was  married;  you  would  n't  let 
anybody  come  near  you  but  me  "  — 

"  Why,  it 's  Angeline !  "  said  the  old  man 
dreamily,  with  a  vacant  smile. 
165 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL 

"  Yes,  it  's  me." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  drifted  away  again. 
The  old  wife  sat  still  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Outside  she  could  hear  the  sigh  of  the  oaks 
and  the  trill  of  young  voices.  Two  or  three 
tears  fell  over  the  wrinkled  face,  written 
close  with  the  past,  like  a  yellow  page  from 
an  old  diary.  She  wiped  them  away,  and 
looked  about  the  room  with  its  meagre 
belongings,  which  Rob  had  scoured  into 
expectant  neatness. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  very 
well,"  she  thought;  "but  how  could  he,  all 
by  himself?"  She  got  up  and  walked  to  the 
door,  and  looked  out  at  the  strange  land 
scape  with  its  masses  of  purple  mountains. 

"  I  've  got  to  do  one  of  two  things,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I've  just  got  to  own  up  the 
whole  thing,  and  let  the  girls  be  mortified, 
or  else  I  Ve  got  to  keep  still  and  marry  him 
over  again,  and  pass  for  an  old  fool  the  rest 
of  my  life.  I  don't  believe  I  can  do  it. 
They've  got  more  time  to  live  down  dis 
grace  than  I  have.  I  believe  I  '11  just  come 
out  and  tell  everything.  Ethel !  "  she  called. 
166 


AT  THE  FOOT   OF  THE  TRAIL 

"Come  here,  you  and  Rob;  I  Ve  got  some 
thing  to  tell  you." 

The  young  couple  stood  with  locked  arms, 
looking  out  over  the  valley.  At  the  sound 
of  her  voice  they  clasped  each  other  close 
in  an  embrace  of  passionate  protest  against 
the  intrusion  of  this  other  soul.  Then  they 
turned  toward  the  sunset,  and  went  slowly 
and  reluctantly  into  the  house. 


Lib 


Lib 


A  YOUNG  woman  sat  on  the  veranda  of 
a  small  redwood  cabin,  putting  her 
baby  to  sleep.  The  infant  displayed  that 
aggressive  wide-awakeness  which  seems  to 
characterize  babies  on  the  verge  of  somno 
lence.  Now  and  then  it  plunged  its  dim 
pled  fists  into  the  young  mother's  bare  white 
breast,  stiffened  its  tiny  form  rebelliously, 
raised  its  head,  and  sent  gleams  of  defiance 
from  beneath  its  drooping  eyelids. 

It  was  late  in  March,  and  the  ground 
about  the  cabin  was  yellow  with  low-grow 
ing  composite.  The  air  was  honey-sweet 
and  dripping  with  bird-song.  Inside  the 
house  a  woman  and  a  girl  were  talking. 

"  Oh,  he  's  not  worrying,"  said  the  latter. 
"  What 's  he  got  to  worry  about?  He  lets  us 
do  all  that.  Lib 's  got  the  baby  and  we  Ve 
got  to  bear  all  the  disgrace.  I "  — 

"Myrtie,"  called  a  clear  voice  from  the 
171 


LIB 

veranda,  "  shut  up !  You  may  say  what  you 
please  about  me,  and  you  may  say  what  you 
please  about  him,  but  nobody 's  going  to  call 
this  baby  a  disgrace." 

She  caught  the  child  up  and  kissed  the 
back  of  its  neck  with  passionate  vehemence. 
The  baby  struggled  in  her  embrace  and  gave 
a  little  cry  of  outraged  dignity. 

Indoors  the  girl  looked  at  her  mother  and 
bit  her  lip  in  astonished  dismay. 

"  I  did  n't  know  she  could  hear,"  she 
whispered. 

A  tall  young  woman  came  up  the  walk, 
trailing  her  tawdry  ruffles  over  the  fragrant 
alfileria. 

"  Is  Miss  Sunderland  "  —  She  colored  a 
dull  pink  and  glanced  at  the  baby. 

"  I  'm  Lib  Sunderland.  Won't  you  come 
in  ?  "  said  Lib. 

The  newcomer  sank  down  on  the  upper 
step  and  leaned  against  the  post  of  the 
veranda. 

"  No.  I  don't  want  to  see  any  one  but  you. 
I  guess  we  can  talk  here." 

The  baby  sat  up  at  the  sound  of  the  stran- 
172 


LIB 

ger's  voice  and  stared  at  her  with  round, 
blinking  eyes.  She  drew  off  her  cotton 
gloves  and  whipped  her  knee  with  them  in 
awkward  embarrassment.  She  had  small, 
regular  features  of  the  kind  that  remain  the 
same  from  childhood  to  old  age,  and  her 
liver-colored  hair  rolled  in  a  billow  almost 
to  her  eyes. 

"  Maybe  you  '11  think  it  strange  for  me  to 
come,"  she  began,  "  but  I  did  n't  know  what 
else  to  do.  I  'm  Ruby  Adair." 

She  waited  a  little,  but  her  statement 
awoke  no  response  in  Lib's  noncommittal 

face. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  what 
they  're  saying  over  at  the  store  or  not,"  the 
visitor  went  on  haltingly. 

"No,"  said  Lib,  with  dry  indifference; 
« there  ain't  any  men  in  our  family  to  do  the 
loafin'  and  gossipin'  for  us." 

"  Since  you  moved  over  here  from  Bunch 
Grass  Valley,  they're  saying  that  Thad 
Farnham  is  the— is  — you  know  he  was  in 
the  tile  works  over  there  a  year  or  more 


ago." 


'73 


LIB 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Lib's  voice  was  like  the 
crackling  of  dead  leaves  under  foot. 

"I  think  it's  pretty  hard/' continued  Miss 
Adair,  gathering  courage,  and  glancing  from 
under  the  surf  of  her  hair  at  her  listener's 
impassive  face;  "him  and  me  's  engaged!  " 

Lib's  eyes  narrowed,  and  the  velvety 
down  on  her  lip  showed  black  against  the 
whiteness  around  her  mouth. 

"  What  does  he  say?  "  she  asked. 

"  What  can  he  say?  "  Thad's  fiancee  broke 
out  nervously,  "  except  that  it  ain't  so.  But 
that  does  n't  shut  people's  mouths.  Nobody 
can  do  that  but  you.  I  think "  —  she  raised 
her  chin  virtuously  and  twisted  her  gloves 
tight  in  her  trembling  hands  —  "that  you 
ought  to  come  out  plain  and  tell  who  the 
man  is  —  I  mean  the  —  you  know  what  I 
mean ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lib  dully,  "  I  know  what  you 


mean." 


There  was  a  little  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  mad  twitter  of  nesting  linnets  in  the  pas 
sion-vine  overhead. 

"Of   course,"  resumed   the   stranger,  "I 


LIB 

would  n't  want  you  to  think  but  what  I  'm 
sorry  for  you.  You  've  been  treated  awful 
mean  by  somebody." 

A  surprised  look  grew  in  the  eyes  Lib 
fixed  upon  her  visitor.  The  baby  stirred  in 
its  sleep,  and  she  bent  down  and  rubbed  her 
cheek  against  its  hair. 

"  You  need  n't  waste  any  time  being  sorry 
for  me,"  she  said. 

"It's  too  bad,"  continued  Miss  Adair, 
intent  upon  her  own  exalted  charity,  "  but 
that  does  n't  make  it  right  for  you  to  get 
other  folks  into  trouble.  You'd  ought  to 
remember  that." 

"  If  you  think  he  's  all  right,  why  don't 
you  go  ahead  and  marry  him?"  asked 
Lib. 

"  My  folks  would  make  such  a  fuss,  and 
besides  I  don't  know  as  it  would  be  just 
right  for  me  to  act  like  I  did  n't  care,  after 
all  that's  been  said  —  and  me  a  church- 
member  ! " 

Miss  Ruby  bent  her  head  a  little  forward, 
as  if  under  the  weight  of  her  moral  obliga 
tions. 

'75 


LIB 

"  Has  he  joined  the  church  ?  "  inquired 
Lib  in  a  curious  voice. 

"  He  's  been  going  to  the  union  meetings 
regular  with  me,  and  he  's  stood  up  twice 
for  prayers,  but  I  dunno  's  they  'd  take  him 
into  the  church  with  all  these  stories  going 
about.  You  'd  ought  to  think  of  that,  too  — 
you  may  be  standing  in  the  way  of  saving 
his  soul." 

"  If  his  soul  was  lost,  it  would  be  awful 
hard  to  find,"  said  Lib  quietly. 

Her  listener's  weak  mouth  slackened. 
"  Wh-at?  "  she  asked,  with  a  little  stuttering 
gasp. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno.  Some  things  are  hard  to 
find  when  they  're  lost,  you  know." 

"  And  you  '11  speak  up  and  tell  the  truth  ?  " 
The  visitor  arose,  gathering  her  flounces 
about  her  with  one  hand. 

"  If  I  speak  up,  I  '11  tell  the  truth,  you  can 
bet  on  that,"  said  Lib. 

Miss  Adair  waited  an  instant,  as  if  for 
some  assurance  which  Lib  did  not  vouch 
safe.    Then  she  writhed  down  the  walk  in 
her  twisted  drapery  and  disappeared. 
176 


LIB 

Thad  Farnham  and  his  father  had  been 
cutting  down  a  eucalyptus-tree.  The  two 
men  looked  small  and  mean  clambering  over 
the  felled  giant,  as  if  belonging  to  some 
species  of  destructive  insect.  The  tree  in  its 
fall  had  bruised  the  wild  growth,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  oily  medicinal  odors.  Long  strips 
of  curled  cinnamon-colored  bark  strewed  the 
ground.  The  father  and  son  confronted  each 
other  across  the  pallid  trunk.  The  older 
man's  face  was  leathery-red  with  anger. 

"  The  story 's  got  around  that  the  kid  's 
yours,  anyway,"  he  announced.  "I  don't 
care  who  started  it,  but  if  it 's  true,  you  '11 
make  a  bee-line  for  the  widow's  and  marry 
the  girl.  D'  you  hear  ?  " 

Thad  dropped  his  eyes  sullenly  and  made 
a  feint  of  examining  the  crosscut  saw. 

"  I  don't  go  much  on  family,"  continued 
old  Farnham, "  and  I  never  'lowed  you  'd  set 
anything  on  fire  excepting  maybe  yourself, 
but  I'm  not  raising  sneaks  and  liars,  and 
what  little  I  've  got  hain't  been  scraped  to 
gether  to  fatten  that  kind  of  stock! " 

"Who  said  I  lied?" 
177 


LIB 

"  Nobody.  But  I  'm  going  to  take  you  over 
to  face  that  girl  and  see  what  she  says.  If 
you  don't  foller  peaceable,  I  '11  coax  you  along 
with  a  hatful  of  cartridges.  I  hear  you've 
been  whining  around  the  revival  meetings. 
I  never  suspected  you  till  I  heard  that ! " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  suspect  a  feller  for 
lookin'  after  the  salvation  "  — 

"  Oh,  damn  your  salvation  1  "  broke  in  the 
old  man. 

"Well,  Idunno"  — 

"  Well,  I  do  !  "  roared  the  father;  "  I  know 
you  can't  make  an  angel  without  a  man  to 
start  with,  and  I  '11  do  what  I  can  to  furnish 
the  man,  seein'  I  'm  responsible  for  you  bein' 
born  in  the  shape  of  one,  and  the  preachers 
may  put  in  the  wing  and  the  tail  feathers  if 
they  can!  Now  start  that  saw!  " 

Old  Farnham  and  his  son  sat  in  the  small 
front  room  of  the  widow  Sunderland's  cabin. 
The  old  man's  jaw  was  set,  and  he  grasped 
his  knees  with  his  big  hairy  hands  as  if  to 
steady  himself. 

Neither  of  the  men  arose  when  Lib  came 
178 


LIB 

into  the  room  with  the  baby.  The  old  man's 
eyes  followed  her  as  she  seated  herself  with 
out  so  much  as  a  glance  at  his  companion. 

"My  name  's  Farnham,"  he  began 
hoarsely.  "This  is  my  son  Thad.  You've 
met  him,  maybe  ?  "  He  stopped  and  cleared 
his  throat. 

Lib  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"  Yes,  I  've  met  him,"  she  said  quietly. 

The  old  man's  face  turned  the  color  of 
dull  terra-cotta. 

"They  say  he  took  advantage  of  you.  I 
don't  know.  I  was  n't  much  as  a  young  fel 
ler,  but  I  was  n't  a  scrub,  and  I  don't  savvy 
scrubs.  I  fetched  him  over  here  to-day  to 
ask  you  if  it 's  true,  and  to  say  to  you  if  it  is, 
he  '11  marry  you  or  there  '11  be  trouble.  That 
don't  square  it,  but  it 's  the  best  I  can  do." 

There  was  a  tense  stillness  in  the  little 
room.  The  baby  gave  a  squeal  of  delight 
and  kicked  a  small  red  stocking  from  its 
dimpled  foot.  The  old  man  picked  it  up  and 
laid  it  on  Lib's  lap.  She  looked  straight  into 
his  face  for  a  while  before  she  spoke. 

"  I  guess  you  're  a  good  man,  Mr.  Farn- 
179 


LIB 

ham,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  would  n't  mind 
being  your  daughter-in-law,  if  you  had  a  son 
that  took  after  you.  I  think  the  baby  would 
like  you  very  well  for  a  grandpap,  too. 
The  older  he  grows,  the  more  particular  I  'm 
getting  about  his  relations.  I  did  n't  think 
much  about  anything  before  he  came,  but 
I've  done  a  lot  of  thinkin'  since.  I  guess 
that  ?s  generally  the  way  with  girls." 

She  turned  toward  Thad,  and  her  voice 
cut  the  air  like  a  lash. 

"  Suppose  you  ivas  the  father  of  this  baby, 
and  had  to  be  drug  here  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  to  own  it,  would  n't  you  think  I  'd  done 
the  poor  little  thing  harm  enough  just  by  — 
by  that,  without  tackin'  you  onto  him  for 
the  rest  of  his  life?  No,  sir!"  She  stood 
up  and  took  a  step  backward.  "  You  go  and 
tell  everybody  —  tell  Ruby  Adair,  that  I  say 
this  child  has  n't  any  father;  he  never  had 
any,  but  he's  got  a  mother,  and  a  mother 
that  thinks  too  much  of  him  to  disgrace  him 
by  marrying  a  coward,  which  is  more  than 
she  '11  be  able  to  say  for  her  children  if  she 
ever  has  any!  Now  go!  " 
180 


For  Value  Received 


For  Value   Received 

A  SOFT  yellow  haze  lay  over  the  San 
Jacinto  plain,  deepening  into  pur 
ple,  where  the  mountains  lifted  themselves 
against  the  horizon.  Nancy  Watson  stood 
in  her  cabin  door,  and  held  her  bony,  moist 
ened  finger  out  into  the  tepid  air. 

"  I  believe  there  's  a  little  breath  of  wind 
from  the  southeast,  Robert,"  she  said,  with  a 
desperate  hopefulness;  "but  the  air  doesn't 
feel  rainy." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  the  rains  '11  come  along  all 
right ;  they  gener'lly  do."  The  man's  voice 
was  husky  and  weak.  "  Anyway,  the  bar 
ley  '11  hold  its  own  quite  a  while  yet." 

"  Oh,  yes;  quite  a  long  while,"  acquiesced 
his  wife,  with  an  eager,  artificial  stress  on  the 
adjective.  "  I  don't  care  much  if  the  harvest 
is  n't  earlier  'n  usual;  I  want  you  to  pick  up 
your  strength." 

She  turned  into  the  room,  a  strained  smile 
183 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

twitching  her  weather-stained  face.  She  was 
glad  Robert's  bed  was  in  the  farthest  corner 
away  from  the  window.  The  barley-field  that 
stretched  about  the  little  redwood  cabin  was 
a  pale  yellowish  green,  deeper  in  the  depres 
sions,  and  fading  almost  into  brown  on  the 
hillocks.  There  had  been  heavy  showers  late 
in  October,  and  the  early  sown  grain  had 
sprouted.  It  was  past  the  middle  of  Novem 
ber  now,  and  the  sky  was  of  that  serene, 
cloudless  Californian  blue  which  is  like  a 
perpetual  smiling  denial  of  any  possibility 
of  rain. 

"  Is  the  barley  turning  yellow  any  ?  "  quer 
ied  the  sick  man  feebly. 

Nancy  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  not  to  speak  of,"  she  faltered,  swal 
lowing  hard. 

Her  husband  was  used  to  that  gulping  sob 
in  her  voice  when  she  stood  in  the  door. 
There  was  a  little  grave  on  the  edge  of  the 
barley-field.  He  had  put  a  bit  of  woven- wire 
fence  about  it  to  keep  out  the  rabbits,  and 
Nancy  had  planted  some  geraniums  inside 
the  small  inclosure.  There  were  some  of  the 
184 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

fiery  blossoms  in  an  old  oyster  can  at  the 
head  of  the  little  mound,  lifting  their  brilliant 
smile  toward  the  unfeeling  blue  of  the  sky. 

"  There  's  pretty  certain  to  be  late  rains, 
anyway,"  the  man  went  on  hoarsely.  "  Leech 
would  let  us  have  more  seed  if  it  was  n't 
for  the  mortgage."  His  voice  broke  into  a 
strained  whisper  on  the  last  word. 

Nancy  crossed  the  room,  and  laid  her 
knotted  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"  You  hain't  got  any  fever  to-day,"  she 
said  irrelevantly. 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  gettin'  on  fine;  I'll  be  up 
in  a  day  or  two.  The  mortgage  '11  be  due 
next  month,  Nancy,"  he  went  on,  looking 
down  at  his  thin  gray  hands  on  the  worn 
coverlet;  "Icalc'lated  they'd  hold  off  till 
harvest,  if  the  crop  was  comin'  on  all  right." 
He  glanced  up  at  her  anxiously. 

The  woman's  careworn  face  worked  in  a 
cruel  convulsive  effort  at  self-control. 

"It  ain't  right,  Robert!"  she  broke  out 
fiercely.  "  You  've  paid  more  'n  the  place  is 
worth  now;  if  they  take  it  for  what's  back, 
it  ain't  right!" 

185 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  pleading 
in  his  sunken  eyes.  He  felt  himself  too  weak 
for  principles,  hardly  strong  enough  to  cope 
with  facts. 

"  But  they  ain't  to  blame,"  he  urged ;  "  they 
lent  me  the  money  to  pay  Thomson.  It  was 
straight  cash;  I  guess  it's  all  right." 

"  There  's  wrong  somewhere,"  persisted 
the  woman,  hurling  her  abstract  justice 
recklessly  in  the  face  of  the  evidence.  "  If 
the  place  is  worth  more,  you  've  made  it  so 
workin'  when  you  was  n't  able.  If  they  take 
it  now,  I  '11  feel  like  burnin'  down  the  house 
and  choppin'  out  every  tree  you  've  planted !  " 

The  man  turned  wearily  on  his  pillow. 
His  wife  could  see  the  gaunt  lines  of  his 
unshaven  neck.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
aching  throat  and  looked  at  him  helplessly; 
then  she  turned  and  went  back  to  the  door. 
The  barley  was  turning  yellow.  She  looked 
toward  the  little  grave  on  the  edge  of  the 
field.  More  than  the  place  was  worth,  she 
had  said.  What  was  it  worth  ?  Suppose  they 
should  take  it.  She  drew  her  high  shoulders 
forward  and  shivered  in  the  warm  air.  The 

186 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

anger  in  her  hard-featured  face  wrought  itself 
into  fixed  lines.  She  recrossed  the  room,  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"How  much  is  the  mortgage,  Robert ?" 
she  asked  calmly.  The  sick  man  gave  a 
sighing  breath  of  relief,  and  drew  a  worn 
account-book  from  under  his  pillow. 

"It'll  be  $287.65,  interest  an' all,  when 
it 's  due,"  he  said,  consulting  his  cramped 
figures.  Each  knew  the  amount  perfectly 
well,  but  the  feint  of  asking  and  telling  eased 
them  both. 

"I'm  going  down  to  San  Diego  to  see 
them  about  it,"  said  Nancy;  "I  can't  ex 
plain  things  in  writing.  There  's  the  money 
for  the  children's  shoes;  if  the  rains  hold  off, 
they  can  go  barefoot  till  Christmas.  Mother 
can  keep  Lizzie  out  of  school,  and  I  guess 
Bobbie  and  Frank  can  'tend  to  things  out 
side." 

A  four-year-old  boy  came  around  the  house 
wailing  out  a  grief  that  seem  to  abate  sud 
denly  at  sight  of  his  mother.  Nancy  picked 
him  up  and  held  him  in  her  lap  while  she 
took  a  splinter  from  the  tip  of  his  little  grimy 
187 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

outstretched  finger;  then  she  hugged  him 
almost  fiercely,  and  set  him  on  the  doorstep. 

"  What  's  the  matter  with  gramma's  baby  ?  " 
called  an  anxious  voice  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  mother;  he  got  a  sliver  in 
his  finger;  I  just  took  it  out." 

"  He  's  father's  little  soldier,"  said  Robert 
huskily;  "  he  ain't  a-goin'  to  cry  about  a 
little  thing  like  that." 

The  little  soldier  sat  on  the  doorstep, 
striving  to  get  his  sobs  under  military  dis 
cipline  and  contemplating  his  tiny  finger 
ruefully. 

An  old  woman  came  through  the  room 
with  a  white  cloth  in  her  hand. 

"  Gramma  '11  tie  it  up  for  him,"  she  said 
soothingly,  sitting  down  on  the  step,  and 
tearing  off  a  bandage  wide  enough  for  a 
broken  limb. 

The  patient  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  con 
tent  as  the  unwieldiness  of  the  wounded 
member  increased,  and  held  his  fat  little 
fingers  wide  apart  to  accommodate  the  su 
perfluity  of  rag. 

"There,  now,"  said  the  old  woman,  rub- 
188 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

bing  his  soft  little  gingham  back  fondly; 
"  gramma  '11  go  and  show  him  the  tur 
keys." 

The  two  disappeared  around  the  corner 
of  the  house,  and  the  man  and  woman  came 
drearily  back  to  their  conference. 

"  If  you  go,  Nancy,"  said  Robert,  essaying 
a  wan  smile,  "  I  hope  you  '11  be  careful  what 
you  say  to  'em;  you  must  remember  they 
don't  think  they  're  to  blame." 

"  I  won't  promise  anything  at  all,"  as 
serted  Nancy,  hitching  her  angular  shoul 
ders;  "  more  'n  likely,  I  '11  tell  'em  just  what 
I  think.  I  ain't  afraid  of  hurtin'  their  feelin's, 
for  they  hain't  got  any.  I  think  money  's  a 
good  deal  like  your  skin;  it  keeps  you  from 
feelin'  things  that  make  you  smart  dreadfully 
when  you  get  it  knocked  off." 

Robert  smiled  feebly,  and  rubbed  his 
moist,  yielding  hand'  across  his  wife's  mis 
shapen  knuckles. 

"  Well,  then,  you  had  n't  ought  to  be  hard 
on  'em,  Nancy;  it's  no  more'n  natural  to 
want  to  save  your  skin,"  he  said,  closing  his 
eyes  wearily. 

189 


FOR   VALUE    RECEIVED 

"  Robert  Watson  ?  " 

The  teller  of  the  Merchants'  and  Fruit 
growers'  Bank  looked  through  the  bars  of  his 
gilded  cage,  and  repeated  the  name  reflec 
tively.  He  did  not  notice  the  eager  look  of 
the  woman  who  confronted  him,  but  he  did 
wonder  a  little  that  she  had  failed  to  brush 
the  thick  dust  of  travel  from  the  shoulders 
of  her  rusty  cape. 

The  teller  was  a  slender,  immaculate  young 
man,  whose  hair  arose  in  an  alert  brush  from 
his  forehead,  which  was  high  and  seemed 
to  have  been  polished  by  the  same  process 
that  had  given  such  a  faultless  and  aggres 
sive  gloss  to  his  linen.  He  turned  on  his  spry 
little  heel  and  stepped  to  the  back  of  the 
inclosure,  where  he  took  a  handful  of  long, 
narrow  papers  from  a  leather  case,  and  ran 
over  them  hastily.  Nancy  did  not  think  it 
possible  that  he  could  be  reading  them;  the 
setting  in  his  ring  made  a  little  streak  of 
light  as  his  fingers  flew.  She  watched  him 
with  tense  earnestness;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  beating  of  her  heart  shook  the  polished 
counter  she  leaned  against.  She  hid  her  cot- 
190 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

ton-gloved  hands  under  her  cape  for  fear  he 
would  see  how  they  trembled. 

The  teller  returned  the  papers  to  their 
case,  and  consulted  a  stout,  short-visaged 
man,  whose  lips  and  brows  drew  themselves 
together  in  an  effort  of  recollection. 

The  two  men  stood  near  enough  to  hear 
Nancy's  voice.  She  pressed  her  weather- 
beaten  face  close  to  the  gilded  bars. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Watson.  I  came  down  to  see 
you  about  it;  my  husband's  been  poorly 
and  could  n't  come.  We  'd  like  to  get  a  little 
more  time;  we've  had  bad  luck  with  the 
barley  so  far,  but  we  think  we  can  make  it 
another  season." 

The  men  gave  her  a  bland,  impersonal 
attention. 

"  Yes  ?  "  inquired  the  teller,  with  tentative 
sympathy,  running  his  pencil  through  his 
upright  hair,  and  tapping  his  forefinger  with 
it  nervously.  "  I  believe  that 's  one  of  Bart- 
lett's  personal  matters,"  he  said  in  an  under 
tone. 

The  older  man   nodded,  slowly  at  first, 
and  then  with  increasing  affirmation. 
191 


FOR   VALUE   RECEIVED 

"  You  're  right,"  he  said,  untying  the  knot 
in  his  face,  and  turning  away. 

The  teller  came  back  to  his  place. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  the  cashier,  has  charge  of 
that  matter,  Mrs.  Watson.  He  has  not  been 
down  for  two  or  three  days:  one  of  his  chil 
dren  is  very  sick.  I  '11  make  a  note  of  it,  how 
ever,  and  draw  his  attention  to  it  when  he 
comes  in."  He  wrote  a  few  lines  hurriedly 
on  a  bit  of  paper,  and  impaled  it  on  an 
already  overcrowded  spindle. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  he  lives  ?  "  asked 
Nancy. 

The  young  man  hesitated. 

"I  don't  believe  I  would  go  to  the  house; 
they  say  it's  something  contagious  "  — 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,"  interrupted  Nancy 
grimly. 

The  teller  wrote  an  address,  and  slipped  it 
toward  her  with  a  nimble  motion,  keeping 
his  hand  outstretched  for  the  next  comer, 
and  smiling  at  him  over  Nancy's  dusty 
shoulder. 

The  woman  turned  away,  suddenly  aware 
that  she  had  been  blocking  the  wheels  of 
192 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

commerce,  and  made  her  way  through  the 
knot  of  men  that  had  gathered  behind  her. 
Outside  she  could  feel  the  sea  in  the  air,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  street  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  level  blue  plain  with  no  purple  moun 
tains  on  its  horizon. 

Someway,  the  mortgage  had  grown 
smaller;  no  one  seemed  to  care  about  it  but 
herself.  She  had  felt  vaguely  that  they  would 
be  expecting  her  and  have  themselves  steeled 
against  her  request.  On  the  way  from  the 
station  she  had  thought  that  people  were 
looking  at  her  curiously  as  the  woman  from 
"  up  toward  Pinacate "  who  was  about  to 
lose  her  home  on  a  mortgage.  She  had  even 
felt  that  some  of  them  knew  of  the  little 
wire-fenced  grave  on  the  edge  of  the  barley- 
field. 

She  showed  the  card  to  a  boy  at  the  cor 
ner,  who  pointed  out  the  street  and  told  her 
to  watch  for  the  number  over  the  door. 

"It  isn't  very  far;  'bout  four  blocks  up 

on  the  right-hand  side.  Yuh   kin  take  the 

street  car  fer  a  nickel,  er  yuh  kin  walk  fi' 

cents  cheaper,"  he  volunteered,  whereupon 

'93 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

an  older  boy  kicked  him  affectionately,  and 
advised  him  in  a  nauseated  tone  to  "  come 
off." 

Nancy  walked  along  the  smooth  cement 
pavement,  looking  anxiously  at  the  houses 
behind  their  sentinel  palms.  The  vagaries  of 
Western  architecture  conveyed  no  impres 
sion  but  that  of  splendor  to  her  uncritical 
eye.  The  house  whose  number  corresponded 
to  the  one  on  her  card  was  less  pretentious 
than  some  of  the  others,  but  the  difference 
was  lost  upon  her  in  the  general  sense  of 
grandeur. 

She  went  up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell, 
with  the  same  stifling  clutch  on  her  throat 
that  she  had  felt  in  the  bank.  There  was  a 
little  pause,  and  then  the  door  opened,  and 
Nancy  saw  a  fragile,  girl-like  woman  with  a 
tear-stained  face  standing  before  her. 

"  Does  Mr.  Bartlett  live  here  ?  "  faltered 
the  visitor,  her  chin  trembling. 

The  young  creature  leaned  forward  like  a 
flower  wilting  on  its  stem,  and  buried  her 
face  on  Nancy's  dusty  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  sobbed; 
194 


FOR   VALUE   RECEIVED 

"  I  thought  no  one  ever  would  come.  I  did  n't 
know  before  that  people  were  so  afraid  of 
scarlet  fever.  They  have  taken  my  baby 
away  for  fear  he  would  take  it.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  it?  Please  come  right  in 
where  she  is,  and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

Nancy  had  put  her  gaunt  arm  around  the 
girl's  waist,  and  was  patting  her  quivering 
shoulder  with  one  cotton-gloved  hand.  Two 
red  spots  had  come  on  her  high  cheek-bones, 
and  her  lips  were  working.  She  let  herself 
be  led  across  the  hall  into  an  adjoining  room, 
where  a  yellow-haired  child  lay  restless  and 
fever  stricken.  A  young  man  with  a  haggard 
face  came  forward  and  greeted  her  eagerly. 
"  Now,  Flora,"  he  said,  smoothing  his  wife's 
disordered  hair,  "you  don't  need  to  worry 
any  more;  we  shall  get  on  now.  I'm  sure 
she 's  a  little  better  to-day;  don't  you  think 
so?"  He  appealed  to  Nancy,  wistfully. 

"  Yes ;  I  think  she  is,"  said  Nancy  stoutly, 
moving  her  head  in  awkward  defiance  of  her 
own  words. 

"  There,  Flora,  that 's  just  what  the  doctor 
said,"  pleaded  the  husband. 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

The  young  wife  clung  to  the  older  woman 
desperately. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ? "  she  faltered. 
"  You  know,  I  never  could  stand  it.  She 's 
all  —  well,  of  course,  there 's  the  baby  —  but 
— oh — you  see — you  know — I  never  could 
bear  it!  "  She  broke  down  again,  sobbing, 
with  her  arms  about  Nancy's  neck. 

"  Yes,  you  can  bear  it,"  said  Nancy.  "  You 
can  bear  it  if  you  have  to,  but  you  ain't 
a-goin'  to  have  to  —  she 's  a-goin'  to  get  well. 
An'  you  Ve  got  your  man  —  you  ought  to 
recollect  that "  —  she  stifled  a  sob  —  "  he 
seems  well  an'  hearty." 

The  young  wife  raised  her  head  and  looked 
at  her  husband  with  tearful  scorn.  He  met 
her  gaze  meekly,  with  that  ready  self-efface 
ment  which  husbands  seem  to  feel  in  the 
presence  of  maternity. 

"  Have  you  two  poor  things  been  here  all 
alone  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 

"Yes,"  sobbed  the  girl-wife,  this  time  on 

her  husband's  shoulder ;   "  everybody   was 

afraid,  —  we  could  n't  get  any  one,  —  and  I 

don't  know  anything.  You  're  the  first  wo- 

196 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

man    I  Ve    seen  since  —  oh,   it  's   been   so 
long!" 

"  Well,  you  're  all  nervous  and  worn  out 
and  half  starved,"  announced  Nancy,  unty 
ing  her  bonnet-strings.  "  I  Ve  had  sickness, 
but  I  Ve  never  been  this  bad  off.  Now,  you 
just  take  care  of  the  little  girl,  and  I  '11  take 
care  of  you." 

It  was  a  caretaking  like  the  sudden  still 
ing  of  the  tempest  that  came  to  the  little 
household.  The  father  and  mother  would  not 
have  said  that  the  rest  and  order  that  per 
vaded  the  house,  and  finally  crept  into  the 
room  where  the  sick  child  lay,  came  from  a 
homely  woman  with  an  ill-fitting  dress  and 
hard,  knotted  hands.  To  them  she  seemed 
the  impersonation  of  beauty  and  peace  on 
earth. 

That  night  Nancy  wrote  to  her  husband. 
The  letter  was  not  very  explicit,  but  limited 
expression  seems  to  have  its  compensations. 
There  are  comparatively  few  misunderstand 
ings  among  the  animals  that  do  not  write 
at  all.  To  Robert  the  letter  seemed  entirely 
satisfactory.  This  is  what  she  wrote  :  — 
197 


FOR   VALUE  RECEIVED 

I  have  not  had  much  time  to  see  about 
the  Morgage.  One  of  their  children  is  very 
sick  and  I  will  have  to  stay  a  few  days.  If 
the  cough  medisine  gives  out  tell  mother  the 
directions  is  up  by  the  Clock.  I  hope  you 
are  able  to  set  up.  Write  and  tell  me  how 
the  Barley  holds  on.  Tell  the  children  to  be 
good.  Your  loving  wife, 

NANCY  WATSON. 

"  Nancy  was  always  a  great  hand  around 
where  there  's  sickness,"  Robert  commented 
to  his  mother-in-law.  "  I  hope  she  won  ?t 
hurry  home  if  she  ?s  needed." 

He  wrote  her  to  that  effect  the  next 
day,  very  proud  of  his  ability  to  sit  up,  and 
urging  her  not  to  shorten  her  stay  on  his 
account.  "  Ime  beter  and  the  Barly  is  hold 
ing  its  own,"  he  said,  and  Nancy  found  it 
ample. 

"This  Mrs.  Watson  you  have  is  a  trea 
sure,"  said  the  doctor  to  young  Bartlett; 
"  where  did  you  find  her  ?  " 

"Find  her?    I  thought  you  sent  her,"  an 
swered  Bartlett,  in  a  daze. 
198 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

"No;  I  couldn't  find  any  one;  I  was  at 
my  wits'  end." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  blankly. 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  matter  where  she  came 
from,"  said  the  doctor,  "  so  she  stays.  She  's 
a  whole  relief  corps  and  benevolent  society 
in  one." 

Young  Bartlett  spoke  to  Nancy  about  it 
the  first  time  they  were  alone. 

"  Who  sent  you  to  us,  Mrs.  Watson?  "  he 
asked. 

Nancy  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow. 

"  Nobody  sent  me  —  I  just  came." 

Then  she  faced  about. 

"  I  don't  want  to  deceive  nobody.  I  come 
down  from  Pinacate  to  see  you  about  some 
—  some  business.  They  told  me  at  the  bank 
that  you  was  up  at  the  house,  so  I  come  up. 
When  I  found  how  it  was,  I  thought  I  'd 
better  stay  —  that 's  all." 

"  From  Pinacate  —  about  some  business  ?  " 
queried  the  puzzled  listener. 

"Yes;  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  to 
you;  I  don't  want  to  bother  you  about  it 
199 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

when  you  're  in  trouble  an'  all  wore  out.  I 
told  them  down  at  the  bank;  they'll  tell 
you  when  you  go  down."  And  with  this  the 
young  man  was  obliged  to  be  content. 

It  was  nearly  two  weeks  before  the  child 
was  out  of  danger.  Then  Nancy  said  she 
must  go  home.  The  young  mother  kissed 
her  tenderly  when  they  parted. 

"  I  'm  so  sorry  you  can't  stay  and  see  the 
baby,"  she  said,  with  sweet  young  selfish 
ness;  "they're  going  to  bring  him  home 
very  soon  now.  He  's  so  cute !  Archie  dear, 
go  to  the  door  with  Mrs.  Watson,  and  re 
member" —  She  raised  her  eyebrows  sig 
nificantly,  and  waited  to  see  that  her  husband 
understood  before  she  turned  away. 

The  young  man  followed  Nancy  to  the 
hall. 

"  How  much  do  I  owe  "  —  He  stopped, 
with  a  queer  choking  sensation  in  his  throat. 

Nancy's  face  flushed. 

"  I  always  want  to  be  neighborly  when 
there's  sickness,"  she  said;  "'most  anybody 
does.  I  hope  you  '11  get  on  all  right  now. 
Good-by." 

200 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

She  held  out  her  work-hardened  hand, 
and  the  young  man  caught  it  in  his  warm, 
prosperous  grasp.  They  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  an  instant,  not  the  mortgagor 
and  the  mortgagee,  but  the  woman  and  the 
man. 

"  Good-by,  Mrs.  Watson.  I  can  never  "  — 
The  words  died  huskily  in  his  throat. 

"  Papa,"  called  a  weak,  fretful  little  voice. 

Nancy  hitched  her  old  cape  about  her 
high  shoulders. 

"Good-by,"  she  repeated,  and  turned 
away. 

Robert  leaned  across  the  kitchen  table, 
and  held  a  legal  document  near  the  lamp. 

"  It 's  marked  '  Satisfaction  of  mortgage  * 
on  the  outside,"  he  said  in  a  puzzled  voice; 
"  and  it  must  be  our  mortgage,  for  it  tells  all 
about  it  inside;  but  it  says" — he  unfolded 
the  paper,  and  read  from  it  in  his  slow, 
husky  whisper,  —  "  <  The  debt  —  secured 
thereby  —  having  been  fully  paid  —  satisfied 
—  and  discharged.'  I  don't  see  what  it 


means." 


201 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

Nancy  rested  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
looked  across  at  him  anxiously. 

"  It  must  be  a  mistake,  Robert.  I  never 
said  anything  to  them  except  that  we  ?d  like 
to  have  more  time." 

He  went  over  the  paper  again  carefully. 

"  It  reads  very  plain,"  he  said.  Then  he 
fixed  his  sunken  eyes  on  her  thoughtfully. 
"  Do  you  suppose,  Nancy,  it  could  be  on 
account  of  what  you  done  ?  " 

"Me!"  The  woman  stared  at  him  in  as 
tonishment. 

Suddenly  Robert  turned  his  eyes  toward 
the  ceiling,  with  a  new  light  in  his  thin  face. 

"Listen!"  he  exclaimed  breathlessly, 
"  it 's  raining !  " 

There  was  a  swift  patter  of  heralding 
drops,  and  then  a  steady,  rhythmical  drum 
ming  on  the  shake  roof.  The  man  smiled, 
with  that  ineffable  delight  in  the  music 
which  no  one  really  knows  but  the  tiller  of 
the  soil. 

Nancy  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  looked 
out  into  the  night. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  keeping  something  out  of 
202 


FOR  VALUE   RECEIVED 

her  voice;   "the    wind's    strong   from   the 
southeast,  and  it 's  raining  steady." 

Nancy  Watson  always  felt  a  little  lone 
some  when  it  rained.  She  had  never  men 
tioned  it,  but  she  could  not  help  wishing 
there  was  a  shelter  over  the  little  grave  on 
the  edge  of  the  barley-field. 


The  Face  of  the  Poor 


The  Face  of  the  Poor 

MR.  ANTHONY  attached  a  memoran 
dum  to  the  letter  he  was  reading,  and 
put  his  hand  on  the  bell. 

"  Confound  them  ! "  he  said  under  his 
breath,  "  what  do  they  think  I  ?m  made  of  ! " 

A  negro  opened  the  door,  and  came  into 
the  room  with  exaggerated  decorum. 

"  Rufus,  take  this  to  Mr.  Whitwell,  and 
tell  him  to  get  the  answer  off  at  once.  Is  any 
one  waiting  ?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,  several.  One  man 's  been  there 
some  time.  Says  his  name  's  Busson,  suh." 

«  Send  him  in." 

The  man  gave  his  head  a  tilt  forward 
which  seemed  to  close  his  eyes,  turned  piv- 
otally  about,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  in 
his  most  luxurious  manner.  Rufus  never 
imitated  his  employer,  but  he  often  regretted 
that  his  employer  did  not  imitate  him. 

Mr.  Anthony's  face  resumed  its  look  of 
207 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

prosperous  annoyance.  The  door  opened, 
and  a  small,  roughly  dressed  man  came 
toward  the  desk. 

"  Well,  here  I  am  at  last,"  he  said  in  a  tone 
of  gentle  apology;  "  I  suppose  you  think  it 's 
about  time." 

The  annoyance  faded  out  of  Mr.  Anthony's 
face,  and  left  it  blank.  The  visitor  put  out  a 
work-callous  hand. 

"I  guess  you  don't  remember  me;  my 
name 's  Burson.  I  was  up  once  before,  but 
you  were  busy.  I  hope  you  're  well ;  you 
look  hearty." 

Mr.  Anthony  shook  the  proffered  hand, 
and  then  shrank  back,  with  the  distrust  of 
geniality  which  is  one  of  the  cruel  hardships 
of  wealth. 

"  I  am  well,  thank  you.  What  can  I  do  for 
you,  Mr.  Burson  ?  " 

The  little  man  sat  down  and  wiped  the 
back  of  his  neck  with  his  handkerchief.  He 
was  bearded  almost  to  the  eyes,  and  his  bushy 
brows  stood  out  in  a  thatch.  As  he  bent  his 
gaze  upon  Mr.  Anthony  it  was  like  some  gen 
tle  creature  peering  out  of  a  brushy  covert. 

208 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

"  I  guess  the  question  's  what  I  can  do  for 
you,  Mr.  Anthony,"  he  said,  smiling  wistfully 
on  the  millionaire;  "I  hain't  done  much  this 
far,  sure." 

"  Well  ?  "  Mr.  Anthony's  voice  was  dryly 
interrogative. 

"  When  Edmonson  told  me  he  'd  sold  the 
mortgage  to  you,  I  thought  certain  I  'd  be 
able  to  keep  up  the  interest,  but  I  have  n't 
made  out  to  do  even  that;  you've  been  kept 
out  of  your  money  a  long  time,  and  to  tell 
the  truth  I  don't  see  much  chance  for  you 
to  get  it.  I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  talk 
with  you  about  it,  and  see  what  we  could 
agree  on." 

Mr.  Anthony  leaned  back  rather  wearily. 

"  I  might  foreclose,"  he  said. 

The  visitor  looked  troubled.  "Yes,  you 
could  foreclose,  but  that  would  n't  fix  it  up. 
To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Anthony,  I  don't  feel 
right  about  it.  I  have  n't  kep'  up  the  place 
as  I'd  ought;  it's  been  running  down  for 
more  'n  a  year.  I  don't  believe  it 's  worth  the 
mortgage  to-day." 

Some  of  the  weariness  disappeared  from 
209 


THE   FACE  OF  THE  POOR 

Mr.  Anthony's  face.  He  laid  his  arms  on  the 
desk  and  leaned  forward. 

"You  don't  think  it's  worth  the  mort 
gage  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  the  mortgage  and  interest.  You  see 
there 's  over  three  hundred  dollars  interest 
due.  I  don't  believe  you  could  get  more  'n  a 
thousand  dollars  cash  for  the  place." 

"  There  would  be  a  deficiency  judgment, 
then,"  said  the  millionaire. 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
about.  I  supposed  the  law  was  arranged 
some  way  so  you  'd  get  your  money.  It 's  no 
more  'n  right.  But  it  seems  a  kind  of  a  pity 
for  you  and  me  to  go  to  law.  There  ain't  no 
thing  between  us.  I  had  the  money,  and  you 
the  same  as  loaned  it  to  me.  It  was  money 
you  'd  saved  up  again  old  age,  and  you  'd 
ought  to  have  it.  If  I'd  worked  the  place 
and  kep'  it  up  right,  it  would  be  worth  more, 
though  of  course  property 's  gone  down  a  good 
deal.  But  mother  and  the  girls  got  kind  of 
discouraged  and  wanted  me  to  go  to  peddlin' 
fruit,  and  of  course  you  can't  do  more  'n  one 
thing  at  a  time,  and  do  it  justice.  Now  if  you 

210 


THE  FACE  OF  THE  POOR 

had  the  place,  I  expect  you  could  afford  to 
keep  it  up,  and  I  would  n't  wonder  if  you 
could  sell  it ;  but  you  'd  have  to  put  some 
ready  money  into  it  first,  I  'm  afraid." 

Mr.  Anthony  pushed  a  pencil  up  and  down 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  and 
watched  the  process  with  an  inscrutable 
face.  His  visitor  went  on:  — 

"  I  was  thinking  if  we  could  agree  on  a 
price,  I  might  deed  it  to  you  and  give  you  a 
note  for  the  balance  of  what  I  owe  you.  I  'm 
getting  on  kind  of  slow,  but  I  don't  believe 
but  what  I  could  pay  the  note  after  a  while." 

Mr.  Anthony  kept  his  eyes  on  his  lead 
pencil  with  a  strange,  whimsical  smile. 

"  Edmonson  owed  me  two  thousand  dol 
lars,"  he  said,  "  the  mortgage  really  cost  me 
that ;  at  least  it  was  all  I  got  on  the  debt." 

The  visitor  made  a  regretful  sound  with 
his  tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"You  don't  say  so!  Well,  that  is  too 
bad." 

The  thatch  above  the  speaker's  eyes  stood 
out  straight  as  he  reflected. 

"You're  worse  off  than  I   thought,"  he 

211 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

went  on  slowly,  "  but  it  don't  quite  seem  as 
if  I  ought  to  be  held  responsible  for  that.  I 
had  the  thousand  dollars,  and  used  it,  and 
I  'd  ought  to  pay  it ;  but  the  other  —  it  was 
a  kind  of  a  trade  you  made  —  I  can't  see  — 
you  don't  think"  — 

Mr.  Anthony  broke  into  his  hesitation  with 
a  short  laugh. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  're  responsible  for 
my  blunders,"  he  said  soberly.  "You  say 
property  has  gone  down  a  good  deal,"  he 
went  on,  fixing  his  shrewd  eyes  on  his  listener. 
"  A  good  many  other  things  have  gone  down. 
If  my  money  will  buy  more  than  it  would 
when  it  was  loaned,  some  people  would  say 
I  should  n't  have  so  much  of  it.  Perhaps  I  'm 
not  entitled  to  more  than  the  place  will  bring. 
What  do  you  think  about  that  ?  "  There  was 
a  quizzical  note  in  the  rich  man's  voice. 

Burson  wiped  the  back  of  his  neck  with 
his  handkerchief,  dropped  it  into  his  hat, 
and  shook  the  hat  slowly  and  reflectively, 
keeping  time  with  his  head. 

"  If  you  'd  kep'  your  money  by  you,  allow- 
in'  that  you  loaned  it  to  me,  —  because  you 

212 


THE  FACE   OF   THE   POOR 

the  same  as  did,  —  if  you  'd  kep'  it  by  you  or 
put  it  in  the  bank  and  let  it  lay  idle,  you  'd  'a' 
had  it.  It  would  n't  'a'  gone  down  any.  You 
had  n't  ought  to  lose  anything,  that  I  can  see, 
—  except  of  course  for  your  mistake  about 
Edmonson.  That  kind  of  hurts  me  about  Ed- 
monson.  I  wouldn't  'a'  thought  it  of  him. 
He  always  seemed  a  clever  sort  of  fellow." 

"  Oh,  Edmonson 's  all  right,"  said  Mr. 
Anthony;  "  he  went  into  some  things  too 
heavily,  and  broke  up.  I  guess  he  '11  make 
it  yet." 

Burson  looked  relieved.  "  Then  he  '11 
straighten  this  up  with  you,  after  all,"  he 
said. 

Mr.  Anthony  whistled  noiselessly.  "  Well, 
hardly.  He  considers  it  straightened." 

Burson  turned  his  old  hat  slowly  around 
between  his  knees. 

"He's  a  fair-spoken  man,  Edmonson;  I 
kind  of  think  he  '11  square  it  up,  after  all," 
he  said  hopefully.  "  Anyway,  it  does  n't  be 
come  me  to  throw  stones  till  I  've  paid  my 
own  debts." 

The  hair  that  covered  the  speaker's  mouth 
213 


THE   FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

twitched  a  little  in  its  effort  to  smile.    He 
glanced  at  his  companion  expectantly. 

"  Could  you  come  out  and  take  a  look  at 
the  place?  "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Anthony  slid  down  in  his  chair,  and 
clasped  his  hands  across  his  portliness. 

"  I  believe  I  '11  take  your  valuation,  Bur- 
son,"  he  answered  slowly;  "  if  I  find  there 's 
nothing  against  the  property  but  my  mort 
gage,  and  you  '11  give  me  a  deed  and  your 
note  for  the  interest,  or,  say,  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  we  '11  call  it  square.  It  will  take 
a  few  days  to  look  the  matter  up,  a  week, 
perhaps.  Suppose  you  come  in  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  Your  wife  will  sign  the  deed  ?  " 
he  added  interrogatively. 

Burson  had  leaned  forward  to  get  up.  At 
the  question  he  raised  his  eyes  with  the  look 
that  Mr.  Anthony  remembered  to  have  seen 
years  ago  in  small  creatures  he  had  driven 
into  corners. 

"  Mother  did  n't  have  to  sign   the  mort 
gage,"  he  said,  halting  a  little  before  each 
word,  "  the  lawyer  said  it  was  n't  necessary. 
I  don't  know  if  she  '11"  — 
214 


THE  FACE   OF  THE  POOR 

Mr.  Anthony  broke  into  his  embarrass 
ment.  "  Let  me  see."  He  put  his  hand  on 
the  bell. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Evert  to  send  me  the  mortgage 
from  Burson  to  Edmonson,  assigned  to  me," 
he  said  when  Rufus  appeared. 

The  negro  walked  out  of  the  room  as  if  he 
were  carrying  the  message  on  his  head. 

"  Mother  does  n't  always  see  things  just  as 
I  do,"  said  Burson ;  "  she  was  willing  to  sign 
the  mortgage,  though,"  he  added,  "  only  she 
did  n't  need  to  ;  she  wanted  me  to  get  the 
money  of  Edmonson." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  a 
light  of  discovery  came  into  his  face. 

"  Have  a  peach,"  he  said  convivially,  lay 
ing  an  enormous  Late  Crawford  on  the  corner 
of  the  desk.  Mr.  Anthony  gave  an  uncom 
prehending  glance  at  the  gift.  "  Hain't  you 
got  a  knife?"  asked  Burson,  straightening 
himself  and  drawing  a  bone-handled  imple 
ment  from  his  pocket;  "  I  keep  the  big  blade 
for  fruit,"  he  said  kindly,  as  he  laid  it  on  the 
desk. 

Mr.  Anthony  inspected  the  proffered  re- 
215 


THE   FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

freshment  with  a  queer,  uncertain  smile ;  then 
he  took  the  peach  from  the  desk,  drew  the 
wastebasket  between  his  knees,  opened  the 
big  blade  of  the  knife,  and  began  to  remove 
the  red  velvet  skin.  The  juice  ran  down  his 
wrists  and  threatened  his  immaculate  cuffs. 
He  fished  a  spotless  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  with  his  pencil  and  mopped  up  the 
encroaching  rivulets.  His  companion  smiled 
upon  him  with  amiable  relish  as  the  dripping 
sections  disappeared. 

"  I  errigated  'em  more  than  usual  this  year, 
and  it  makes  'em  kind  of  sloppy  to  eat," 
he  apologized;  "it  does  n't  help  the  flavor 
any,  but  most  people  buy  for  size.  When 
you're  out  peddling  and  haven't  time  to 
cultivate,  it 's  easy  to  turn  on  the  water.  It 's 
about  as  bad  as  a  milkman  putting  water  in 
the  milk,  and  I  always  feel  mean  about  it.  I 
tell  mother  errigating  's  a  lazy  man's  way  of 
farming,  but  she  says  water  costs  so  much 
here  she  does  n't  think  it 's  cheating  to  sell 
it  for  peach-juice." 

Rufus  came  into  the  room,  and  bore  down 
upon  the  pair  with  deferential  disdain.  Mr. 
216 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

Anthony  gave  his  fingers  a  parting  wipe,  and 
took  the  papers  from  the  envelope. 

"It's  all  right,  Burson,"  he  said  after  a 
little,  "  you  need  n't  mind  about  your  wife's 
signature.  I  '11  risk  it.  Come  back  in  about  a 
week,  say  Thursday,  Thursday  at  ten,  if  that 
suits  you.  I  '11  have  my  attorney  look  into  it." 

Burson  got  up  and  started  out.  Then  he 
turned  and  stood  still  an  instant. 

"  Of  course,  I  mean  to  tell  mother  about 
the  deed,"  he  said;  "I  would  n't  want  you  to 
think"  — 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,"  acquiesced  Mr. 
Anthony  with  an  almost  violent  waiving  of 
domestic  confidence.  "  Good-afternoon,  Mr. 
Burson."  He  whirled  his  revolving  chair 
toward  the  desk  with  a  distinct  air  of  dismis 
sal,  and  picked  up  the  package  of  papers. 

After  the  door  closed  he  sat  still  for  some 
time,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  mortgage; 
then  he  made  a  memorandum  in  ink,  with 
his  signature  in  full,  and  attached  it  to  the 
document.  Rufus  opened  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Darnell  and  two  other  gentlemen, 
suh." 


217 


THE  FACE  OF   THE   POOR 

The  millionaire  set  his  jaws.  "  Show  them 
in,  Rufus.  Damn  it,"  he  said  softly,  —  "  damn 
it,  why  can't  they  be  honest!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Erastus  Burson, 
that  you  deeded  him  this  place,  and  gave 
him  your  note  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol 
lars  you  did  n't  owe  him?  " 

"Why,  no,  mother;  didn't  I  explain  to 
you  there  'd  be  a  deficiency  judgment?  " 

"Well,  I  should  say  there  was.  But  if 
anybody 's  lackin'  judgment  I  'd  say  it  was 
you,  not  him.  The  idea!  Why  he  's  as  rich 
as  cream,  and  you  're  as  poor  "  — 

"  Well,  his  being  rich  and  me  being  poor 
has  n't  got  anything  to  do  with  it,  mother; 
we  're  just  two  men  trying  to  be  fair  with 
each  other,  don't  you  see  ?  You  and  the 
girls  would  n't  want  me  to  be  close-fisted 
and  overreachin',  even  if  I  am  poor.  I  think 
we  fixed  it  up  just  as  near  right  as  a  wrong 
thing  can  be  fixed.  Of  course  I  don't  like  to 
feel  the  way  I  do  about  Edmonson,  but  Mr. 
Anthony  don't  seem  to  lay  up  anything  again 
him,  and  he  's  the  one  that  has  the  right  to. 
218 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

Edmonson  treated  him  worse  than  anybody 
ever  treated  me.  I  don't  know  just  how  I'd 
feel  toward  a  man  if  he  'd  treated  me  the  way 
Edmonson  treated  Mr.  Anthony." 

Mrs.  Burson  laid  the  overalls  she  was 
mending  across  her  knee  in  a  suggestive 
attitude. 

"  I  don't  call  it  close-fisted  or  overreachin' 
to  keep  a  roof  over  your  family's  head,"  she 
argued;  "if  the  place  isn't  ours,  I  suppose 
we  '11  have  to  leave  it." 

"  No ;  Mr.  Anthony  wants  us  to  stay  here, 
and  take  care  of  the  place  for  the  rent.  I  feel 
as  if  I  'd  ought  to  keep  it  up  better,  but  if 
I  'm  to  peddle  fruit  and  try  to  pay  off  the 
note,  I  '11  have  to  hustle.  I  want  to  do  the 
square  thing  by  him.  He  's  certainly  treated 
me  white." 

Mrs.  Burson  fitted  a  patch  on  the  seat  of 
the  overalls,  and  flattened  it  down  with  rather 
unnecessarily  vigorous  slaps  of  her  large 
hand. 

"  I  would  n't  lose  any  sleep  over  Mr.  An 
thony;  I  guess  he'  s  able  to  take  care  of  him 
self,"  she  said,  closing  her  lips  suddenly  as 
219 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

if  to  prevent  the  escape  of  less  amicable  sen 
timents. 

"  Well,  he  does  n't  seem  to  be,"  urged 
her  husband,  "  the  way  Edmonson  *s  over 
reached  him.  My !  but  I  'd  hate  to  be  in 
that  fellow's  shoes:  doin'  dirt  to  a  man  that 
a  way!" 

Mrs.  Burson  sighed  audibly,  and  gave  her 
husband  a  hopelessly  uncomprehending  look. 
"  You  do  beat  all,  Erastus,"  she  said  wearily. 
"  Here  's  your  overalls.  I  guess  you  can  be 
trusted  with  'em.  They  're  too  much  patched 
to  give  to  Mr.  Anthony." 

Burson  returned  her  look  of  uncompre- 
hension.  Fortunately  the  marital  fog  through 
which  two  pairs  of  eyes  so  often  view  each 
other  is  more  likely  to  dull  the  outline  of 
faults  than  of  virtues.  Mrs.  Burson  watched 
her  husband  not  unfondly  as  he  straddled 
into  his  overalls  and  left  the  room. 

"  A  man  does  n't  have  to  be  very  sharp  to 
get  the  better  of  Erastus,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  "  but  he  has  to  be  awful  low  down;  and 
I  s'pose  there  's  plenty  that  is." 

The  winter  came  smilingly  on,  tantalizing 

220 


THE   FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

the  farmer  with  sunny  indifference  concern 
ing  drouth,  and  when  he  was  quite  despond 
ent  sending  great  purple  clouds  from  the 
southeast  to  wash  away  his  fears.  By  Christ 
mas  the  early  oranges  were  yellowing.  There 
had  been  no  frost,  and  Burson's  old  spring- 
wagon  and  unshapely  but  well-fed  sorrel  team 
made  their  daily  round  of  the  valley,  and  now 
and  then  he  dropped  into  Mr.  Anthony's 
office  to  make  small  payments  on  his  note. 
Pitifully  small  they  seemed  to  the  mortgagee, 
who  appeared  nevertheless  always  glad  to 
receive  them,  and  gave  orders  to  Rufus,  much 
to  that  dignitary's  disgust,  that  the  fruit-ven 
der  should  always  be  admitted.  The  handful 
of  coin  which  he  so  cheerfully  piled  on  the 
corner  of  the  rich  man's  desk  always  remained 
there  until  his  departure,  when  Mr.  Anthony 
took  an  envelope  from  the  safe,  swept  the 
payment  into  it  without  counting,  and  re 
turned  it  to  its  compartment,  making  no  in 
dorsement  on  the  note. 

"  I  'd  feel  better  satisfied  if  you  ?d  drive  out 
some  time  and  take  a  look  at  things,"  said 
Burson  to  his  creditor  during  one  of  these 

221 


THE   FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

visits;  "you'd  ought  to  get  out  of  the  office 
now  and  then  for  your  health." 

"  Maybe  I  will,  Burson,"  replied  the  cap 
italist.  "  You  're  not  away  from  home  all  the 
time?" 

"  Oh,  no,  but  I  s'pose  Sunday 's  your  day 
off;  it's  mine.  Mother  and  the  girls  generally 
go  to  church,  but  I  don't.  I  tell  'm  I  '11  watch, 
and  they  can  pray.  I  can't  very  well  go,"  he 
added,  making  haste  to  counteract  the  pos 
sible  shock  from  his  irreverence;  "there  ain't 
but  one  seat  in  the  fruit-wagon,  and  when 
the  women  folks  get  their  togs  on,  three 's 
about  all  that  can  ride.  Come  out  any  Sun 
day,  and  stay  for  dinner.  We  mostly  have 
chicken." 

The  following  Sunday  Mr.  Anthony  drew 
up  his  daintily -stepping  chestnut  at  the 
fruit-peddler's  gate.  Before  he  had  de 
scended  from  his  shining  road-wagon,  his 
host  ran  down  the  walk,  pulling  on  his 
shabby  coat. 

"  Well,  now,  this  is  something  like  !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "Got  a  hitching-strap ?  Just 
wait  till  I  open  the  gate;  I  believe  I  'd  better 

222 


THE  FACE  OF  THE  POOR 

take  your  horse  inside.  There  's  a  post  by 
the  kitchen  door.  My,  ain't  he  a  beauty!  " 

Burson  led  the  roadster  through  the  gate, 
and  Mr.  Anthony  walked  by  his  side.  When 
the  horse  was  tied,  the  two  men  went  about 
the  place,  and  Erastus  showed  his  guest  the 
poultry  and  fruit  trees,  commenting  on  the 
merits  of  Plymouth  Rocks  and  White  Leg 
horns  as  layers,  and  displaying  modest  pride 
in  the  condition  of  the  orchard. 

"  I  've  kep'  it  up  better  this  year.  The 
rains  come  along  more  favorable  and  the 
weeds  did  n't  get  ahead  of  me  the  way  they 
did  last  winter.  Look  out,  there !  "  he  cried, 
as  Mr.  Anthony  laid  his  hand  on  the  head 
of  a  Jersey  calf  that  backed  awkwardly  from 
under  his  grasp.  "  Don't  let  her  get  a  hold  of 
your  coat-tail;  she  chawed  mine  to  a  frazzle 
the  other  day;  the  girls  pet  her  so  much  she 
has  no  manners." 

When  the  tour  of  the  little  farm  was  fin 
ished  the  two  men  came  back  to  the  veranda, 
and  Erastus  drew  a  rocking-chair  from  the 
front  room  for  his  guest.  It  was  hung  with 
patchwork  cushions  of  "  crazy  "  design,  but 
223 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

Mr.  Anthony  leaned  his  tired  head  against 
them  in  the  sanest  content. 

"  Now  you  just  sit  still  a  minute,"  Erastus 
said,  "  and  I  'm  a-going  to  bring  you  some 
thing  you  hain't  tasted  for  a  long  time." 

He  darted  into  the  house,  and  returned 
with  a  pitcher  and  two  glasses. 

"  Sweet  cider!  "  he  announced,  with  a  tri 
umphant  smile.  "  I  had  a  lot  of  apples  in  the 
fall,  not  big  enough  to  peddle,  —  you  know 
our  apples  ain't  anything  to  brag  of,  —  and  I 
just  rigged  up  a  kind  of  hand-press  in  the 
back  yard,  and  now  and  then  I  press  out  a 
pitcher  of  cider  for  Sunday.  I  never  let  it 
get  the  least  bit  hard;  not  that  I  don't  like 
a  little  tang  to  it  myself,  but  mother  belongs 
to  the  W.  C.  T.  IL,  and  it  'd  worry  her." 

He  darted  into  the  house  again,  and 
emerged  with  a  plate  of  brown  twisted  cakes. 

"  Mother  usually  makes  cookies  on  Satur 
day,  but  I  can't  find  anything  but  these 
doughnuts.  Maybe  they  won't  go  bad  with 
the  cider." 

He  poured  his  guest  a  glass,  and  Mr. 
Anthony  drank  it,  holding  a  doughnut  in 

224 


THE  FACE   OF  THE  POOR 

one  hand,  and  partaking  of  it  with  evident 
relish. 

"  It 's  good,  Burson,"  he  said.  "  May  I  have 
another  glass  and  another  doughnut  ?  " 

His  host's  countenance  fairly  shone  with 
delighted  hospitality  as  he  replenished  the 
empty  glass.  There  were  crumbs  on  the  floor 
when  the  visitor  left,  and  flies  buzzed  about 
the  empty  plate  and  pitcher  as  Mrs.  Burson 
and  her  daughters  came  up  the  steps. 

"  Mr.  Anthony  's  been  here,"  said  Erastus 
cheerfully;  "I'm  awful  sorry  you  missed 
him.  We  had  some  cider  and  doughnuts." 

The  three  women  stopped  suddenly,  and 
stared  at  the  speaker. 

"Why,  Paw  Burson!"  ejaculated  the  el 
der  daughter,  "  did  you  give  Mr.  Anthony 
doughnuts  and  cider  out  here  on  this  porch  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Millie,"  apologized  the  father; 
"  I  looked  for  cookies,  but  I  could  n't  find 
any.  He  said  he  liked  doughnuts,  and  he  did 
seem  to  relish  'em;  he  eat  several." 

"  That  awful  rich  man !  Why,  Paw  Bur- 
son!" 

The  young  woman  gave  an  awe-stricken 
225 


THE   FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

glance  about  her,  as  if  expecting  to  discover 
some  lingering  traces  of  wealth. 

"  Doughnuts!  "  she  repeated  helplessly. 

"Why,  Millie/'  faltered  the  father,  mildly 
aggressive,  "I  don't  see  why  being  rich 
should  take  away  a  man's  appetite ;  I  'm  sure 
I  hope  I  '11  never  be  too  rich  to  like  dough 
nuts  and  cider." 

"  Did  n't  you  give  him  a  napkin,  paw  ?  " 
queried  the  younger  girl. 

"  No,"  said  the  father  meekly,  "  he  had  his 
handkerchief.  I  coaxed  him  to  stay  to  dinner, 
but  he  couldn't;  and  I  asked  him  to  drive 
out  some  day  with  his  wife  and  daughter  — 
he  has  n't  but  one  —  they  lost  a  little  girl 
when  she  was  seven"  — 

The  man's  voice  quivered  on  the  last  word, 
and  died  away.  Mrs.  Burson  went  hurriedly 
into  the  house.  She  reappeared  at  the  door 
in  a  few  minutes  without  her  bonnet. 

"  Erastus,"  she  said  gently,  "  will  you  split 
me  a  few  sticks  of  kindling  before  you  put 
away  the  team  ?  " 

Mrs.  Burson  was    fitting    a    salad-green 
226 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

bodice  on  her  elder  daughter.  That  young 
woman's  efforts  to  see  her  own  spine,  where 
her  mother  was  distributing  pins  with  solemn 
intentness,  had  dyed  her  face  a  somewhat 
unnatural  red,  but  the  hands  that  lay  upon 
her  downy  arms  were  much  whiter  than 
those  that  hovered  about  her  back.  A  dining- 
table,  bearing  the  more  permanent  part  of  its 
outfit,  was  pushed  into  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  covered  with  a  yellow  mosquito-net,  and 
from  the  kitchen  came  a  sound  of  crockery 
accompanied  by  an  occasional  splash  and  a 
scraping  of  tin.  Now  and  then  the  younger 
girl  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  gazed  in 
a  sort  of  worshipful  ecstasy  at  her  sister's 
splendor. 

"  Do  you  think  you  '11  get  it  finished  for 
the  Fiesta,  maw?  "  she  asked,  between  deep 
breaths  of  admiration.  Mrs.  Burson  nodded 
absently,  exploring  her  bosom  for  another 
pin  with  her  outspread  palm. 

Her  husband  came  into  the  room,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  rep  lounge. 
His  face  had  a  strange  pallor  above  the  mask 
of  his  beard. 

227 


THE   FACE  OF  THE   POOR 

"You're  home  early,  Erastus,"  she  said; 
then  she  looked  up.  "Are  you  sick?"  she 
asked  with  anxiety. 

"  Mr.  Anthony  is  dead,"  Burson  said  hus 
kily. 

"Dead!   Why,  Erastus !  " 

Mrs.  Burson  held  a  pin  suspended  in  the 
air  and  stared  at  her  husband. 

"  Yes.  He  dropped  dead  in  his  chair.  Or 
rather,  he  had  some  kind  of  a  stroke,  and 
never  came  to.  It  happened  more  than  a 
week  ago.  I  went  in  to-day,  and  Rufus  told 


me." 


Mrs.  Burson  returned  the  pin  to  her  bosom, 
and  motioned  her  daughter  toward  the  bed 
room  door. 

"  Go  and  take  it  off,  Millie,"  she  said  so 
berly.  She  was  shamefacedly  conscious  of 
something  different  from  the  grief  that  stirred 
her  husband,  something  more  sordid  and 
personal. 

"It  hurt  me  all  over,"  Burson  went  on, 
"  the  way  some  of  them  talked  in  town.  They 
looked  queer  at  me  when  I  said  what  I  did 
about  him.  I  don't  understand  it." 

228 


THE  FACE   OF  THE  POOR 

"  I  guess  there  's  a  good  many  things  you 
don't  understand,  Erastus,"  ventured  the  wife 
quietly. 

A  carriage  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  a  young 
woman  alighted  from  it,  and  came  up  the 
walk.  Erastus  saw  her  first,  and  met  her  in 
the  open  doorway.  She  looked  at  him  with 
eager  intentness. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Burson  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 
"  I  am  Mr.  Anthony's  daughter." 

Mrs.  Burson  got  up,  holding  the  scraps  of 
green  silk  in  her  apron,  and  offered  the  vis 
itor  a  seat.  Erastus  held  out  his  hand,  and 
tried  to  speak.  The  two  faced  each  other  in 
tearful  silence. 

"  I  wanted  to  bring  you  this  myself,"  the 
girl  faltered,  "  because  —  because  of  what  is 
written  on  the  outside."  She  held  a  package 
of  papers  toward  him.  "  I  have  heard  him 
speak  of  you,  I  think.  Any  friend  of  my  fa 
ther  must  be  a  good  man.  We  want  to  thank 
you,  my  mother  and  I "  — 

"  To  thank  me  ?  "  Erastus  questioned,  "  to 
thank  me !  You  certainly  don't  know  "  — 

"  I  know  you  were  my  father's  friend,"  the 
229 


THE  FACE   OF  THE  POOR 

girl  interrupted;  "I  don't  care  about  the  rest. 
Possibly  I  could  n't  understand  it.  I  know 
very  little  about  business,  but  I  knew  my 
father." 

She  got  up,  holding  her  head  high  in  grief- 
stricken  pride,  and  gave  her  hand  to  her  host 
and  hostess. 

The  younger  Burson  girl  emerged  from 
the  kitchen,  a  dish-towel  and  a  half-wiped 
plate  clasped  to  her  breast,  and  watched  the 
visitor  as  she  went  down  the  path. 

"  Her  silk  waist  does  n't  begin  to  touch 
Millie's  for  style,"  she  said  pensively,  "  and 
her  skirt  does  n't  even  drag;  but  there 's 
something  about  her." 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Burson,  "  there  is 
something  about  her." 

Erastus  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  old  rep 
lounge,  looking  absently  at  the  papers. 

"  In  the  event  of  my  death,  to  be  delivered 
to  my  friend  Erastus  Burson,"  was  written 
on  the  package. 

His  wife  came  and  stood  over  him. 

"  I  don't  know  just  what  it  means,  mother," 
he  said,  "  there  's  a  deed,  and  my  note  marked 

230 


THE  FACE   OF  THE   POOR 

'Paid,'  and  a  lot  of  two-bit  and  four-bit 
pieces.  I  '11  have  to  get  somebody  to  explain 
it." 

He  sat  quite  still  until  the  woman  laid  her 
large  hand  on  his  bowed  head.  Then  he 
looked  up,  with  moist,  winking  eyes. 

"  I  don't  feel  right  about  it,  mother,"  he 
said.  "  I  wish  now  I  'd  'a'  dropped  in  oftener, 
and  been  more  sociable.  It 's  a  strange  thing 
to  say,  but  I  think  sometimes  he  was  lone 
some  ;  and  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  why,  for 
a  kinder,  genialer  man  I  never  met." 


(Cbe 

Electrotyped and printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  6*  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mast.,  U.S.A. 


OVERDUE- 


jj)  2l-lOOrn-8,'34 


YB 


863700 


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